If Today Was Your Last Day
by VolceVoice
Summary: Five years after Eliot and the team put a woman's life back together, she disappears.  Can the team find her without Nate's help?  Sequel to "If It's Worth Saving Me." Final Chapter is up: "The Recommendation—Sterling"
1. Say Goodbye—Jo

**This is a sequel to "If It's Worth Saving Me," which you should probably read first. Credit goes to bprice for requesting a sequel, but the blame is all mine if it tanks.**

**I stretched the timeline a little-it's set about five years after "Saving Me," but also between seasons two and three. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except Jo and the other OCs. I also mean no disrespect to TNT, the writers, the actors, or Dean Devlin.**

* * *

Studio Three at _The Gym_ was filled with grunts and thuds and cries of effort as the students tried to immobilize each other with every trick in their growing arsenals.

The door creaked open. Jo turned around and saw a long-haired man in a blue thermal shirt and jeans walk in like he owned the place—which he did. She finished explaining to a young man that a little leverage sometimes worked better than brute force and headed over.

"Spencer," she said. "Everyone back safe and sound?" She knew they were, or he wouldn't be here, but she needed to hear it out loud this time.

"Yeah, last night." He looked over the fighters with a critical eye. "This your advanced class?"

"Mostly," she said, not taking offense at the lack of detail. He'd tell her more when and if he needed to—it had been a rough month for everyone. "What do you think?"

He shrugged. "Wanna show 'em how it's done?"

She smiled. "You know how much I love dumping you on your butt in front of an audience, but I have another partner for you today, if you don't mind."

Spencer nodded, like she'd figured he would. She often asked him to assess her best students one-on-one. And it didn't hurt the students—permanently—to face someone whose main objective in a fight had nothing to do with belts, ribbons, or trophies. Did their egos some good, too.

"Great." She clapped her hands twice and the bouts broke up. "Show and tell time," she said, and the students moved back, leaving a large space with Spencer in the middle. She pointed. "You're up."

A compact teenager loped up, shook his pale brown cowlick out of his eyes and grinned. "Hey, Spencer."

Spencer didn't crack a smile. "Dougie. You ready?"

"Let me know." He dropped into a stance and Eliot mirrored him. "Sensei?"

Jo clapped her hands. "Make your mother proud."

Three minutes later, Dougie flew through the air. He landed in a graceful roll, but instead of standing, he kept low and swept a leg around, catching Spencer on the attack. It wasn't perfect, but Spencer stumbled back. Dougie sprang at the older man, who deflected him.

Jo circled the bout. She saw room for improvement, but for a fourteen-year old, Dougie was good. He wasn't trying to match Spencer's skill and strength; he was playing to his own—grace, speed, and an uncanny ability to be where you didn't think he was.

In the end, Dougie got bounced hard once and didn't manage to take Spencer down, but he had no reason to be ashamed. From his grin and posture as Spencer clapped him on the shoulder, the teenager felt exactly the opposite.

Jo had another student lead the cool down and the stretches. "Well?"

"Kid's good. Young, but that won't last. He'll never be a power hitter, but looks like he knows it."

"He does. He's taking gymnastics, too. Strength and flexibility."

"School?"

"And Parker. They've cooked up some kind of special training thing. They run together, too, when she's in town."

"Better watch that," he growled, but Jo knew it was a reflex. Dougie was one of the few people Parker would die to protect, even from herself.

"Dougie claims it was his idea. And so far, there's been only minor bruising and a scraped nose. Right before school picture day."

"I saw that. Sophie has it on the fridge at Na—at the office."

Jo caught the pause, but didn't say anything. If she could strangle Nathan Ford for taking everything on himself, for leaving his team, she would, the arrogant control-freak . . . but she, of all people, couldn't fault him for wanting to protect his family.

"I think she was more upset than Ron's mother." Sophie was holding it together—holding everyone together—but there were moments, usually small and relatively insignificant, when her stress escaped into overreaction. "And _she_ had one of her special migraines, I was told. At length."

Spencer finally smiled. "How is Gladys?"

"Four states away, thank God. She's a good woman and I'll always love her for raising a good man, but holy cow, the woman drives me _insane_." Jo saw the class finish their last stretch. "That's it for the day. Practice, practice, practice. Philip," she added to the student who'd tried to force his win, "that means doing your katas, not picking fights in bars you shouldn't even be in, understand? Or you'll _pray_ your parole officer finds you first."

She waited for the young man's sheepish nod and turned back to Spencer. "Of course, she was hoping for someone like Sophie for a daughter-in-law and got me instead, so we're probably even."

He chuckled. "Sophie's not even like Sophie."

"I know, but Gladys is all about appearances."

"Talking about Grandma?" asked Dougie.

Jo didn't reach out and ruffle Dougie's hair while the other students filed past, but she did smile. "Good job. You almost got him."

"You wanna try?" asked Spencer.

She started to answer when Ron came in. "Phone, Jo." He bent to give her a kiss that curled her toes and handed over her cell. "It's Maya. Jo give you a run for your money?" he asked Spencer.

"Nope, the kid did."

"Yeah? Good, isn't he?" Ron looked proud and Dougie beamed. "Now, if he would put that much effort into algebra . . ."

Dougie sighed. "Da-ad."

Jo smiled as she put the phone to her ear. "Maya?"

"_Sorry to bother you, Jo, but it's Tiana again. She's threatening to walk."_

"Her boyfriend call her? Or her brothers?"

"_I don't know, but something must have happened—she was fine this morning. We can't keep her here against her will, but . . ."_

"I'm on my way." Jo ended the call. "Shelter business," she told Ron. "Can you get Damien to take my Tai Chi?"

"I'll go tell him—if not, I've got it. You get your homework done?" he asked Dougie as they left.

Jo gathered her stuff together. "Good thing I took it easy today," she said. "Don't have time to shower."

"You want backup?" asked Spencer, walking her out.

"Not for this, thanks. But you could do me a favor."

"Name it."

She led him into the employee lounge. "Come to our place for dinner tonight?"

He rubbed his chin. "What are we having?"

She smiled. "Potato soup?"

He folded his arms. "Are you asking, or telling?"

"Asking?" She opened her eyes wide. "If it's too much trouble, I can make it. The canned stuff isn't as good as yours, but—"

"Canned soup? Do you know what's in that stuff? Salt and mush."

"It's easy and it doesn't taste that bad."

"Doesn't taste . . . are you kidding me?" He scowled. "You've been spending way too much time with Parker. I'll go get the ingredients. Maybe take Dougie with me—kid's got to learn nutrition from somebody around here."

"Only if you really want to."

"Of course I want to—" He stopped. "I was wrong. You've been spending way too much time with _Sophie_." But he didn't look too upset as he sauntered away to rescue her son from his math homework. Except she knew it would be done by the time she came home.

Jo put on her jacket, backtracked to kiss a passing Ron and tell him about dinner, and left. She climbed into the truck, turned the ignition, and paused. Without knowing why, she dug in her bag for the small plastic box she'd started carrying with her two months ago.

She opened it, pulled out the tiny plastic object from its foam, and stuck it in her ear. She didn't hear anything—she wouldn't until she alerted Hardison by turning it on. She didn't know why she wanted to wear her panic button now—she wasn't planning on doing anything more dangerous than listening to Tiana and maybe sharing a story or two of her own in hopes of keeping the girl from running back to the life she'd escaped only a week earlier.

But she'd rather have it and not need it than leave it where she couldn't get to it.

She tossed the box onto the seat and drove away.


	2. Situation Normal—Eliot

**Thank you to everyone who commented and alerted—your encouragement is much appreciated!**

**You'll notice I still have my dash and elliptical habits, but at least I've figured out the em-dash formatting (dot, dot, dot).**

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Eliot and Dougie climbed the stairs up to the Schulte apartment bearing two bags of groceries and a sack of potatoes.

" . . . I'm just sayin' that you're fourteen. When I was fourteen all I cared about was girls, horses, and football. And girls."

"Well, when Parker was fourteen, she — " Dougie paused. "Sorry, not my story."

Eliot gave him credit for that. He never had to worry about Dougie spilling secrets—the kid had been keeping them most of his life. "You ain't Parker," he said, though sometimes the kid was damned near. "She didn't have anyone back then. You got family and friends and a roof over your head."

"I know, but—"

"Look, all I'm saying is that you should take the time to enjoy normal stuff, too ."

"_Normal_? Please." Dougie stopped at the door. "Have you ever _gone _to high school?

"Yeah." He thought back. "Guess normal's sorta relative."

"Not _my_ relatives." Dougie shifted the potatoes and dug in his pocket. "Half the adults in my life are professional criminals with Robin Hood complexes. Most of the rest could put Batman in a hurt locker. And my mom protects abuse victims by getting their abusers arrested on bogus charges."

"Hey, now—"

"I know—only when there's no other way. And I'm not complaining." He opened the door and disarmed the security system. "I'm just saying that ethics class is going to be fun." He glanced at Eliot. "Especially without Uncle Nate's help."

Eliot scowled. "Yeah, well, your dad might be a better choice." Ron was the only truly nice guy Eliot had ever met—not a pushover, not stupid, just decent. Which was partly why he'd had to come to the team for help. And how Eliot had ended up co-owning _The Gym._

"Dad said situational ethics make his head hurt. Is he doing all right? Nate, I mean." Dougie locked the door and rearmed the system. "Hey, Parker," he added without looking.

"Hi, Dougie," said the thief stretched out on the couch. She didn't take her eyes from the muted cartoons playing on the tv screen. "You guys are out of Lucky Charms," she added, sounding puzzled.

Eliot pulled a box of cereal out of the grocery bag and tossed it to her on his way to the kitchen. He put the bag on the island counter, shoved the clean bowl and spoon to the end, and started unpacking.

"How many potatoes?" asked Dougie.

"Six, if Parker's staying. One each, one extra." Eliot eyed the ingredients. "Didn't we buy half-and-half?"

Without a word, Dougie went to the fridge. He pulled out a gallon of milk and walked past Eliot to the small kitchen table, where Parker was sitting, full bowl in front of her, sniffing at an opened carton. He took it away and handed her the milk. "_Dinosaur Train_ is on in five minutes," he said. "You staying for dinner?"

"If Eliot's cooking, I am." She poured the milk over her Lucky Charms and left, spoon stuck in her mouth.

Dougie put the milk away and started scrubbing potatoes. "You didn't answer my question," he said.

Eliot felt all the frustration and anger rise to the surface again. "I'm not the one to ask." He found the chopping board and pulled Jo's largest knife from the block.

Dougie shut off the water and moved around the island, vegetable scraper in hand. "Who else is there? Mom and Dad told me everything they're going to. Hardison says he's not ready to talk about it and _I'm_ not ready to listen to _Sophie _talk about it." He pulled a carrot out of the bunch and fiddled with the top. "And Parker just keeps going blank and saying, 'he gave himself up,' like he _died."_

Eliot chopped a stalk of celery into tiny pieces, careful to keep his emotions separate from his knifework. "You came to me last?"

Dougie shrugged and started cleaning carrots over a paper plate. "You won't even say his name. I know you're pissed off, but I just want to know if he's _okay_." His voice, which was deeper than it had been a couple months ago, broke a little on the last word.

Eliot let out a breath. "Yeah, he's okay. Surgery went well, no permanent damage. Sterling got him a specialist and 'round the clock guards—he'll keep him healthy and safe until the trial. Us, too." He took the carrots. "You can start peeling spuds."

Dougie scraped the skin off the potatoes. "What then?"

"He'll be charged with whatever Interpol and the FBI can make stick. He made his deal for us, not for himself." Eliot chopped the carrots and sliced the first potato. "Idiot," he added, under his breath.

The celery, carrots and potatoes went into the heavy pot, along with a quart of homemade chicken stock they'd picked up at Greer's Family Restaurant on the way home, since Eliot's place and Na—the office were way on the other side of town. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Hannah's stock just might be better than his. He dipped his little finger in and tasted. She used a little more tarragon and a little less rosemary . . .

"Are you going to break him out?"

Eliot gave the kid his best glare, but it bounced off.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. Sophie—"

"Sophie's not thinking straight right now. And I'm not making you an accessory before the fact—your mom would kill me." He turned up the heat under the soup.

Dougie grinned. "She'd want in."

"Great. Then Ron would kill me. Back up, I'm doing the onion. Better yet," he added, pointing the knife at the backpack under the table, "finish your homework."

"It's _algebra,_" said Dougie, dragging himself over to the table and unzipping his pack.

"Now you sound like a fourteen-year old."

"It's _busy_ work." Dougie dropped into a chair. "I'll never use this stuff in real life."

"Yeah?" Eliot started chopping the onion. "You got two guards doin' walkthroughs from opposite ends of a forty-foot corridor with doors every eight feet along one side. If Guard X takes ten minutes to get from Door A to Door E, and Guard Y takes fifteen to get from Door E to Door A, how long will it take before they meet up and you can drop 'em both at once—and which door are you waitin' behind?"

Dougie stared at him for a full five seconds, then opened his book and got to work.

Eliot grinned.

The soup was keeping warm and the bacon, cheese, and chives were in bowls. The last algebra equation was solved, and the dining room table was set. Ron had come home half an hour ago and was taking a shower.

The only thing missing was the lady of the house.

Ron came into the living room, where Eliot was watching ESPN and trying to ignore the latest Rubik's Cube competition between Parker and Dougie. They'd long since moved from the traditional solution to doing patterns. Eliot had been nagged into drawing one up and was both amused and irritated by the cursing. "Leave my mama out of it, Parker," he advised. "Wasn't my idea in the first place."

"Where is Mom?" asked Dougie. "She always calls if she's going to be late."

"That's what I'd like to know." Ron came in, filling the archway and frowning at his cell. "No messages." He punched a number and waited. "Went right to voice mail. Maybe she's still with the . . . Jo, soup's on. Give us a call when you can, please. Love you." He muttered to himself and started thumbing buttons.

"Dad?"

Ron gave him a reassuring smile. "Maya? It's Ron. Hey, do you know how much longer Jo is going to be? She said she'd be home for dinner and—" His expression darkened. "When? "

Eliot sat up. Parker and Dougie set down their Cubes.

"Where? I understand that, Maya, but . . . Thanks. Of course I will." He closed the phone. "Jo didn't go to the shelter. The girl she was supposed to talk to walked before Jo arrived, so Maya left a message on her cell. She didn't think anything of it when Jo didn't show."

"When?" asked Eliot. He checked his phone. No messages. Parker produced hers and shook her head.

"About half an hour after she left." Ron glanced at the clock on a bookshelf. "Four hours ago."

"Think she went after the girl?" It was something Jo would do.

Ron and Dougie looked at each other. "I don't think so. Not without checking in."

"You sure?" said Eliot. "You know Jo—if she thought the girl was walking into something, she might not take the time to call—"

"No," said Dougie, his voice worried, but certain. "Mom wouldn't do that. Not now."

"Why not? She's done it before." And she always managed to get herself home. Safe, if not completely sound.

"Because she's pregnant," said Ron. "And you know how much that means to her."

Parker's eyes went wide. "_She's _the one who ate my Lucky Charms?"

Eliot swore. Looking back, it was obvious she'd avoided sparring with him, but he hadn't picked up on it. "She didn't tell me." That . . . hurt.

He knew about the miscarriages. He'd rushed her to the hospital himself the last time, slipping into her room in the early hours, after Ron and Dougie had finally passed out in the cots he'd convinced the orderlies to set up. He'd held her hand so she knew she wasn't alone and used every language he knew to silently curse Jo's first husband, who had beaten Jo so bad for so long, it was a miracle she could get pregnant at all.

Eliot had wished the son of a bitch was still alive, so he could break him apart, bone by bone. Still did.

Ron sighed. "She didn't tell anyone. After all the trouble we've had—and then that thing with Nate coming down . . . she just wanted to wait until she had _good _news." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. We just reached the second trimester this week."

One more strike against Nate. "If I'd known, I would have gone with her," he said, angry at himself.

"Wish you had," said Ron. "Wish I had."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because she wasn't supposed to be doing anything more than sitting, listening, and talking." Ron's voice rose. "If I'd known she was going to drop off the face of the earth, I would have handcuffed us together the second the damned stick turned blue!"

"Guys!" snapped Parker. "Not helping! Hardison, we need you," she said into her cell. "Jo's missing. And she's going to have a baby. No, of course not right now—I think."

Eliot put out his hand and she gave him the phone. "Hardison, I need you to track Jo's truck. She disappeared between _The Gym_ and—" he looked at Ron.

"Roxbury."

"Roxbury. Sometime in the last four and a half hours. Her cell's off."

"_I'm on it._ _Where we meeting up?_"

"Jo's place," he said. "In case it's a false alarm."

"_You think she has a flat tire or something?"_

"No."

"_Right_." Hardison's voice was grim._ "Want me to pick up Sophie?"_

Eliot looked at Ron, who was trying to pace in a space that was far too small for him, and Dougie, who was held in place only by Parker's hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah. We need a plan."

**Proven fact: Reviews make me write faster. And give up sleep to update more often.**


	3. The Compromise—Jo

Jo lay still. Listening, waiting.

The surface beneath her left side was softer than floor or ground. Her head rested on a pillow that smelled of laundry detergent. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists were secured behind her back, she thought with flexi-cuffs or zip-strips, her hands palms out.

She pried open one eye to confirm her surroundings, clamped it shut again, and waited for the wave of dizziness to pass. Her head didn't hurt, so it wasn't a concussion. Had they injected her with something, or . . . No, she remembered something covering her mouth and nose, remembered going limp so they wouldn't know she was holding her breath. But she must have taken enough in to knock her out— she could only hope it wasn't something that would hurt the baby.

_They'd_ better hope.

She opened an eye again and scanned as much of the room as she could without moving her head. It was a small room with an empty desk, a chair, and the bed she was lying on. The walls were a pretty shade of blue, which didn't make her feel any better.

But they'd left her alone, which did.

Awkwardly, she sat up, putting her feet on the carpet. She didn't see any obvious cameras or bugs. That didn't mean there weren't any, but she had other things to worry about. Like trying to reach her panic button.

And since she couldn't stick her elbow in her ear . . .

Jo looked down. She hadn't started to show much yet, but she could already feel a firm band around her center of gravity, an area that wanted to be treated gently. Do not bend fold, spindle, or. . .

She sat on her hands, and worked her arms under her thighs. Her back gave a warning twinge and she realized she was hunching over her belly. Straightening her spine and bending from her hips, she fell back on the bed and extended her arms as far as they could go, drawing her legs free in one motion.

Jo took a few deep breaths and rubbed her stomach with the sides of her hands. "Still with me?" she whispered. Everything felt okay, except for her shoulders.

She examined her restraints. Two linked zip-strips, the kind you could get at Home Depot. Good. Cuffs would have given her more room for her legs, but now that she was hands front, this was much better than she'd hoped.

She lifted her hands and caught the long piece of one strip in her teeth. She tugged until the locking end was between her wrists, then did the same for the other strip. It rubbed her skin a little—her efforts had tightened the strips. She pulled them even tighter.

Spencer had told her once that the main reason people couldn't break ordinary zip-strips is that they thought they couldn't. Once the strips were where you wanted them, all it took was applied force and focus.

Jo _focused_.

She raised her arms and brought them down, yanking her wrists apart and her elbows back until her abused shoulder muscles screamed.

The right cuff snapped.

She stood, ignoring her stinging wrist, grabbed the chair, and wedged it under the doorknob. Then she put a finger to her ear, ready to call in the cavalry.

Her earbud was gone.

She took a deep breath and let it out, not sure whether she was going to burst into tears or punch the wall. Neither would be helpful. Time to _think_.

The door rattled.

Jo went to the window. Painted shut. And if she broke it, she'd still have to jump two floors or be a sitting duck on the roof. There was a forced air grate by her foot, but not even Parker could have crawled through that.

The door rattled again. A male voice ordered her to open up.

Jo's eyes narrowed. The _hell._

Spencer would tell her to be passive for the baby's sake, find out more, play along, wait for her moment.

But what if this _was_ her moment?

Something hit the door hard.

Jo rubbed her stomach. Maybe a compromise was in order.

She went to the tiny closet, which was the next thing to empty. Spencer probably knew how to kill someone with a plastic coat hanger, but she didn't have the time to figure it out. The crossbar was a hollow piece of textured plastic—a whiffle-ball bat would have been more useful.

The door opened a few inches and slammed back. If the chair shattered, she'd grab a leg, but meanwhile she opened the desk drawers. She didn't bother to hope for a letter opener, but the little stapler wasn't going to do her much good . . .

Bingo.

Jo straightened as the chair legs scudded a few inches back, bulging the carpet. She moved to the bed and sat on the edge.

She waited for her moment.

And unbent the paperclip.

* * *

**This is short, but the next one will be longer. This story is turning out to be more Eliot's than Jo's—at least for now!**

**Thanks to everyone who read the first two chapters and let me know you liked them by commenting and/or alerting! **

**And thanks also to those of you who went back and read (or re-read) "If it's Worth Saving Me" first—that's a lot of work just to understand the what's up with all the paperclips. **

**So . . . might I ask for your comments on this chapter, too?**


	4. The Complications—Eliot

Eliot pulled up behind Jo's truck and took off his helmet.

"Found it," he said. "Two blocks from the shelter." And under a streetlight, which was helpful—neighborhood watches were funny about flashlights. Not that there were many people to watch him; the house across the street had a faded _For Sale_ sign on its overgrown lawn, and this side was park land.

Perfect place for an ambush.

Since she'd been headed toward a known location, Hardison had plotted Jo's probable route and speed—direct and high—and confirmed it with one or two traffic cameras along the way. It had taken longer to convince Ron and Dougie to stay behind. Eliot was glad Sophie had been there, though the others —even Parker—had agreed with him without needing everything spelled out.

All the things that might have happened. All the things that happened every damned day to people who _didn't_ have criminals for friends and _didn't_ help rescue the victims of vicious monsters with hair-trigger tempers. Carjacking was off the list now, but that was it.

There was no way Eliot was going to let Jo's husband and son near this truck until he checked it first.

Eliot glanced into the truckbed in passing, not expecting any surprises, and not seeing any. He steeled himself as he walked along to the driver's side, Ron's spare key in his hand.

His steps slowed. He'd seen things in his life, things that had scarred him, some of them, or changed him in ways that didn't always make him proud. But nothing had broken him. A week ago—hell, six hours ago—he might have said nothing could.

This could. Because Jo was family, as much as Sophie and Hardison and Parker and . . . and he would give the last untarnished piece of his soul to _know_ that he wasn't about to find—

He looked through the window.

"_Eliot?"_ Ron's voice was taut.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Truck's empty. She's not here."

_"Is that . . . good?"_ asked Parker.

"Maybe." He unlocked the door and pocketed the key. "No blood," he said, hearing a collective sigh in his ear. "No struggle."

The cab was clean, except for a half-empty bottle of water in the cupholder and a small plastic box on the passenger-side floor. He reached for it and saw that it held a piece of packing foam with a deep impression in the middle. A distinctive impression.

"Found an empty earbud box in here," he said.

"_That's good, right?" _asked Dougie.

"_Well, yeah," _said Hardison. "_Except I can't track it until she turns it on."_

"_Which means she can't_," said Ron in a flat, heavy voice. Eliot winced, though Dougie was more than smart enough to figure that one out.

"_Maybe it fell out," _said Sophie.

"_My earbuds _don't_ fall out,"_ said Hardison.

"No, they don't." Eliot knew from personal experience that it took a hard blow or two to knock one out. He hoped Jo hadn't lost hers the same way. "She could be restrained, or maybe someone took it."

Or she was past caring—but he'd bite through his tongue before he said that out loud.

"_If someone did," _said Hardison, "_let's hope they get curious and start messing with the little blue tab._"

"_Is her bag there, Eliot_?" asked Sophie.

"No. Wait a minute." He got out, slammed the door, and checked the bed again. "Someone tossed it in the back." He snagged it by a strap. "Wallet's in here. And her keys."

"_Bring it in,"_ said Sophie.

"Right. Wait a minute." He took the tailgate down and climbed in. "I got a mask here, too—looks like they gassed her."

Ron swore.

"_Any idea what it was?" _asked Sophie.

Eliot caught an odd sweet-sour whiff from the mask, like . . . "Xenoflurane."

"_You sure_?" asked Hardison.

"Yeah. They put an additive in it that smells like bitter oranges."

"_And you know this because—_"

"I had some dental work done in Europe once or twice. Dentists there use it when nitrous oxide won't do the job. Would have knocked her out quick."

"_For how long?"_ asked Sophie.

"Depends on how much she got." He glanced over at the base of the streetlight. Yesterday's rains had made mud out of the ground between the street and the sidewalk, and the pavement was full of tracks.

Eliot put the mask in Jo's bag and vaulted over the side to take a closer look.

It would have taken at least two strong people to hold Jo so a third could clamp the mask over her face—though she might not have fought too much, because of the baby. "There's at least four sets of tracks here near the passenger's side. If the sneakers are Jo's, she must've come around the truck on her own."

"_A set up,"_ said Ron.

"Be my guess." Eliot noticed another set of footprints off to the side. It looked like the owner had been crowded off the walk and had backed out of the way. The prints were small, smaller than Jo's.

Eliot saw a white rectangle floating in a nearby puddle. He scooped it out and found a number written in black ballpoint on one side. Jo's cell number. "What was the name of that woman Jo was supposed to talk to?" he asked.

"_I don't know_," said Ron. "_And it's not going to be easy to get it out of Maya. She takes victim privacy very seriously." _He chuckled without humor. "_I still agree with her, but . . ."_

"_I'll talk to her,_" said Sophie.

"Good," said Eliot, sticking the card in his shirt pocket. "And if that don't work, have Dougie do it."

"_We'll have him try first, right now" _said Sophie. "_Come back and we'll suss it all out."_

Eliot looked across the street. "I'm gonna check something first."

"_All right. Dougie? Let's go into the kitchen. You, too Ron—" _Sophie's voice cut out with a beep. Hardison had probably switched to his headset.

Eliot locked the bag in the truck and headed over to the darkened house.

"_Hey, Eliot," _said the hacker, his distracted voice accompanied by the sound of fingers racing over a keyboard, "_spell Xenoflurane for me."_

Eliot spelled as he passed the For Sale sign and slipped around to the back of the house.

"_Thanks, man." _Hardison's voice was serious. "_Hey, you know we'll find her, right?" _

"Yeah," said Eliot under his breath. "We'll find her."

The deadbolt on the back door had been jimmied recently and it took Eliot ten seconds to do the same. He entered the kitchen and listened for a full five minutes before bringing out his flashlight and moving through.

The place looked like it had been staged for an open house once upon a time and not dusted or vacuumed since. The musty air clogged his nose and mouth. But some furniture in the living room looked like it had been moved out of place on the carpet. The downstairs bathroom showed signs of recent use, too: the ragged end of the toilet paper roll was hanging low and a hand towel was crumpled.

He touched the sink drain—still wet. "Least they washed their hands," he muttered.

"_What?"_

"Never mind."

He went upstairs. The master bedroom was untouched. The toilet paper roll in the bathroom was brand new, but the toilet seat was up, so who knew? Moving down the hall, he found an empty linen closet . . . and a closed door with an impact crater in the center. He turned the knob slowly and eased it open.

Pieces of a broken chair were scattered over the gouged carpet and the quilt on the twin bed had been dragged off the mattress. The flashlight caught a gleam of something long and white half under the pillow. Eliot pulled it out. A broken zip-strip.

_Something_ had happened in here.

Eliot let the light play over the spindly writing desk in the corner. The middle drawer was open and empty, except for a small, plastic stapler. He bent to look underneath and caught a flash of silver.

He knew what it was before he picked it up. A piece of wire, about four inches long.

"Jo was here," he said. "In the house across the street."

"_She was? You sure?"_

_"_Yeah." One end seemed tarnished, and he rubbed the stain and examined his fingertip. Blood. "Found a used paperclip."

"_A used—oh. Oh, man. Gimme the address."_

"Don't bother, Hardison. They broke in, same as me." Eliot tucked the wire into his pocket with the zip-strip and Jo's telephone number. "They're long gone by now." He turned to the closet. Might as well be thorough.

He pulled open the closet door and leapt back as a body fell face-first onto the carpet.

For a split second he thought it was Jo. He might have said her name.

"_What? What? Eliot, man, you gotta _talk _to me—"_

"We got a dead guy. Zip-strip on the wrists." He did a quick search. "No ID. I'll send you a picture of the face."

"_The—that's . . . great. Thanks." _The hacker paused. "_Kidnapper or victim?"_

_"K_idnapper. There's a puncture wound."

"_A punct—right._" Hardison cleared his throat. "_That can't be good. Jo wouldn't, I mean, unless she _had_ to . . ."_

"I know."

_"And if she _did_ have to—"_

"I _know. _Strange, though." He rolled the body completely over. "Looks like she only got him in the . . . well, damn."

"_Damn? What damn?" _

Eliot shook his head, relief fighting with anger and confusion. " Jo didn't kill him."

_"Then who did?"_

He looked at the hole just above the clouded eyes. "Whoever shot him."

**OOOOOoooooOOOOO**

The smell of fresh coffee welcomed Eliot when he arrived at the apartment and he followed it back to the kitchen. On his way, he noticed that the dining room table had gained two more place settings, but the food had been put away.

Sophie was sipping from a coffee mug and looking over Hardison's shoulder as he stared at the screen of his laptop. Ron was going through a stack of legal pads, the restless tapping of his foot the only sign that he wasn't as calm as he seemed.

Dougie was rearranging the fridge while Parker stood nearby holding the dutch oven. The soup probably wasn't cool enough, but Eliot didn't say anything.

"We're going to wait for Jo," said Parker. "Potato soup is good for breakfast." Her eyes warned him not to argue.

As if he would. He set the bag on the table in front of Sophie. "Mask's inside." He went to the cupboard and got a mug. "Any calls?"

"None," said Ron. "I'm going through Jo's case notes—the special ones—but she didn't use any identifiers." He tossed the last pad on the pile and rubbed his face with both hands.

"I'm not surprised," said Eliot, as he filled the mug. He'd helped with some of Jo's _special cases_ over the years.

Sophie put the mask aside. "Eliot? What did you do with the, um . . ." She glanced at Ron and Dougie.

"Don't try to protect us," said Ron, his voice flat. "We deserve to know everything. If Dougie wants to opt out, he'll say so."

"I don't," said Dougie, slamming the fridge door. A couple magnets hit the floor. "It's not fair to be kept in the dark. People _say_ it's for your own good, but it's really for _theirs._"

"You're right," said Sophie, staring at her cup with a familiar expression of anger and loss. "It isn't fair."

"Amen," said Hardison, still staring at the screen.

"Besides," said Dougie. "Parker already told us about the dead guy."

Sophie sighed. "So. What _did _you do?"

"I wiped everything down and put the body back." He sampled the coffee and grimaced. "Don't want anyone connecting Jo with it."

"You seem sure Jo didn't shoot him," said Sophie.

"I am. He was restrained and probably unconscious when he was shot. Jo wouldn't do that."

"Who would?"

"I don't know." Eliot thought about the broken chair and the puncture wound. "Maybe this guy tried something he shouldn't have and they made an example of him." Eliot caught Ron's eye. "That would mean they want her alive and in one piece. And that means we have some time."

Ron nodded, his shoulders easing a little. Dougie looked at his feet, but didn't change expression.

"They do seem to be going to an awful lot of trouble," said Sophie, sorting out the contents of Jo's bag. "Any idea who our dead guy is? Was?"

"Not yet," said Hardison. "Facial recognition searches take time, even without the broken nose."

"Anything from Maya?" asked Eliot. A foot hit him in the rear, the jolt sloshing hot coffee over his hand. He shook off the burn and scowled at Parker, who frowned and kept swinging her feet from her perch on the island counter.

Dougie scoffed. "Maya says she can't tell us anything. She can't violate anyone's privacy. It's a matter of _trust_." He folded his arms. "_Mom _trusts _her_, and all she said was that Mom would _understand._"

"Jo would," said Ron. "I don't like it any better than you do, Doug, but I get it." He put a hand on the kid's shoulder. "I think you do, too."

Dougie didn't say anything for a second or two. Then, "Parker could break into Maya's office and find the records. All we need is a name, right? She doesn't have to look at the personal stuff."

"Sure," said Parker, hopping off the counter. "I'll go now."

"No," said Sophie. "We don't even know if Jo's client was even there."

Eliot took out the card with Jo's number on it and slapped it on the table. "A woman was there. She was the bait."

Sophie looked at the card. "Not until we've exhausted all the options," she said, looking at everyone in turn. "There has to be a line."

Parker sat down again. "_What_ other options?" she said.

"What if I told you that only two places in Boston use Xenoflurane?" said Hardison, hitting a key. "There's only one American distributor and the stuff is _seriously_ pricey. Worth it, though—no long term side effects." He glanced up. "_The Lancet_ recommends it for pregnant women who can't wait for major surgery. I've got the studies right here, if you want to check 'em out."

"I trust you," said Ron. "Thanks, Hardison."

"Swhat I do." The hacker typed something and turned the screen around. "Dr. Tandarts, DDS, and _Beau Vous_ cosmetic surgeons. Which do we hit first?"

There was a pause, while everyone waited for a familiar voice to tell them to steal something.

"We could pose as patients," said Parker, in a small voice. "Kick up a fuss while the others check the inventories?"

"That's good . . . "said Sophie, tapping a finger on her cup. "But since time is of the essence, I think we'll have the staff help us out." She thought a moment and started to outline a plan.

Eliot listened. It was a good scheme, slick as anything Na—as anything the team had done in the past couple years. He just wished there was something he could do _tonight_. From the tension in his big frame, Ron was holding onto his patience with his fingernails. And Dougie had the same expression Parker got just before she—

A phone rang and Sophie cut off mid-sentence.

Ron picked up his cell, which had a cable snaking from it. Hardison held up a finger and plugged the other end into his laptop. "Go," he said.

Eliot gripped Ron's shoulder. "Proof of life," he said.

Ron nodded and took a deep breath. "Hello?"

"_Ron?" _said the speakers. "_It's Maya. Any news?"_

Ron closed his eyes. Dougie's face twisted and he ran, followed closely by Parker.

"Maya. No, we don't know anything yet. I'm sorry, but we have to keep the line open, so—"

"_I understand. Is Eliot there_?"

"Yes, but—"

"_Have him call me, please. Ron, I'm . . . I need to talk to him. As soon as possible. Thanks."_ There was a click.

Eliot took out his phone and went into the living room as the planning resumed behind him. He punched in a number. "Maya."

"_Eliot. Look, you know I can't give out any information about our people—even if I wanted to_."

"Yeah. I get it. I really do. But—"

"_But . . . I _can _ask you for a favor_." She cleared her throat. "_I have a message from a young woman who needs our help. Could you escort her to the shelter in Roxbury?_"

"I think that could be arranged. Any details?"

"_Not from me. I couldn't even tell you if she asked to talk to a specific counselor and then walked out just when that counselor was supposed to arrive. You'll have to ask her—gently, please. She may be a victim, too."_

"I'll remember that. Got her name and address?"

Maya gave both. "_I appreciate this, Eliot_."

"No, problem. When did she call?"

She paused. "_It's hard to tell with these old machines. . . she could have left the message this afternoon or a few days ago. But we have to follow through. You know how I feel about the rules."_

"I know how you feel about Jo. I'll make sure Dougie does, too."

She might have sniffed a little. "_Do you want me to call Mike? He's due back Thursday, but if you need him, he'll take the next plane back."_

"Not yet. But I'll let you know."

"_You do that. __Buena suerte, Eliot. Bring her home."_

"Te prometo, Amalita."

He ended the call and strode back into the kitchen. "Ron. Grab a jacket."

Ron got to his feet. "Where are we going?"

"We're escorting Tiana Cooper to the Roxbury shelter. By the scenic route."

It was good to have a plan.

* * *

**Thank you again for all the comments and alerts! You lovely people are the reason I keep going with these!**

**Please tell me what you think!**


	5. Out of the Frying Pan—Jo

Jo needed a plan.

She stared at the man gripping the steering wheel, keeping his attention split between the road and the rearview mirror. She was sure he had one . . . and she knew she wouldn't like it.

The rear window exploded.

"Down!" he barked. Jo huddled over her belly, bracing her feet and hoping the door wouldn't pop open as the car accelerated and spun into a sudden left turn.

She closed her eyes. Once she'd dealt with Tiana's boyfriend, her only goal had been to get out and get away.

She should have been more specific.

Getting out had been easy enough. The other kidnappers had been in the living room at the back of the house, laughing and making crude comments about what Eddie might be doing to wake her up. She'd padded down the stairs with care.

". . . quiet up there, now." If a voice could leer, that one had.

"He better not rough her up too bad," a second voice had said. "The boss wants her walking and talking."

Jo smiled. That's exactly what she intended to do.

"What about her hearing aid?"

She paused.

"That's her own fault. She's the one grabbed for it before the gas got her. It could be anywhere out there. Eddie coulda stomped on it, for all I know."

Damn, damn, _damn. _

"Guess she'd better hear okay out the other ear, then—or learn to read lips real quick."

Jo had no idea why she was so important—but now wasn't the time to figure it out.

Jo made it past the hallway bathroom before the first voice announced that it had to drain the lizard. She made a hasty ninety-degree turn into the kitchen and waited for the heavy footsteps to pass before heading for the back door. It opened without a sound and she slipped out, easing it shut behind her.

There was a chain link fence surrounding the property—she might be able to get over it safely, but not without announcing it to the neighborhood. Instead, she shook out her ponytail and shed her jacket before passing under the side windows on her way to the street. There weren't many fallen leaves to crunch underfoot, yet, but Jo took it slowly and carefully, step by silent step.

Just as she reached the front yard, a sleek black towncar glided by and stopped in front of the house. Three men got out, two bodyguard types from the front, and one from the back. She flattened against the house before they turned up the walk and listened to them climb the porch. She heard a firm knock and the creak of hinges.

"You have the woman?" said a cold, clipped voice.

"Upstairs, with Eddie."

"I told him not to go near her."

"You know Eddie—he's got a temper."

"So do I." The door shut.

Jo moved to the sidewalk and forced herself to walk at a deliberate pace. Once she reached the shelter, she'd call the police—she'd call her _family._

Half a block later, she heard the purr of an expensive car coming up behind her. She turned her face away to look at an interesting tree, tensing as the car slowed to pace her.

Twenty feet to the next house. She could make that. . .

The window hummed down. "Ms. Schulte." The voice was polite, gravelly, and _familiar_. "I'm—"

"I know who you are." She kept walking through the shock. "Go away."

He raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Then we'll skip the introductions. Come with me, please."

"The hell." She eyed him, the sleek man in his sleek BMW coupe. "I just got out of the frying pan."

"Not quite, I'm afraid." He adjusted the rearview mirror. "In less than thirty seconds, six men will be chasing you."

"Five, unless they find the guy I left in the closet." She heard a muffled gunshot and whipped around.

"From the flash, I'd say they just did. Get in, Ms. Schulte."

"No." She veered off the sidewalk. He couldn't follow her through the backyards.

Shouts echoed down the street. "There! She's over there! Stop where you are!"

"_Get in._" His shout was punctuated by a warning shot whistling above her head.

Jo ducked around the front of the BMV and wrenched open the door, dropping into the seat just as he shifted gears and stomped on the accelerator.

She'd fumbled for the seatbelt, clicking it and glaring at her rescuer.

Three seconds later, the glass had shattered behind them and the BMW had taken off like a bat out of hell, driven by a man she knew only by very poor reputation.

She needed a plan.

A few turns and what sounded like a run red light later, the car slowed to a reasonable pace. "We should be out of the line of fire. For now."

Jo leaned back in her seat and rubbed her belly. They were driving by a row of little retail shops. "Pull over."

"We should keep moving. The rear window makes us just a bit conspicuous."

"Pull over, or I'll kick out the windshield." She met his glance without blinking.

He slid into the first empty space.

She undid her seatbelt.

"Just where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to call the police."

The locks engaged. "I am the police."

She pressed the unresponsive button and tried another toggle. Her window slid down. "Then I'm going to call my family."

The window reserved direction.

"Not just yet, Ms. Schulte."

She studied the self-assured, clean shaven face above the jewel-toned shirt and tailored black jacket. "Eliot Spencer trained me," she said.

"I know."

"Then you know what will happen if you don't let me out of this car."

"Assaulting an Interpol officer is a serious offense. And you aren't part of Nathan Ford's deal."

"Huh. I'd ask him about that, if I were you." She wasn't as close to Nate as she was to Spencer and the others, but she thought he might go to bat for her, if only to piss off this man. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I need your help."

"Sorry. Fresh out." She fiddled with her right sleeve, adjusting the fabric over her hand.

"And you need mine."

"True. I need you to let me out of this car so I can go tell my family I'm alive." She heard the whine in her voice and hated him for it.

"Let me explain—"

"Don't bother. You can't touch Nate's team, so you're getting to them through their friends."

He rubbed his chin. "As tempting as that sounds, you're wrong. I want you for you."

"Ugh." Give her morning sickness any day. "If that's the best you can do, we're done here." She swiveled in her seat, threw her arm over her face and hit the window as hard as she could.

The glass shivered under the first blow. She pulled back again, opening her mouth to scream. If she couldn't break out, she'd at least make herself as _conspicuous_ as possible to the passing shoppers. Let him try to explain that, Interpol or not.

"All right." A surprisingly strong hand clamped around her wrist. "All right! I need you to help me find Madeline Wencel."

Jo froze. "I don't know who you're talking about."

"Madeline Wencel," he said in her ear. "Wife of Robert, the man who hired your kidnappers—and the sharpshooter who lost me the security deposit on this car."

And the man who'd shoved his wife down a flight of stairs because she hadn't moved out of his way quickly enough. Her broken leg had slowed her down.

It hadn't been easy getting her out. . .

Jo swallowed. "I don't—"

"You better had. Because I need to find her before he does. And you need to help me before he finds you again. Or your family." He paused and let her go. "I hear you have a son, Ms. Schulte. What would you do to keep him safe?"

Jo closed her eyes and put a hand to her stomach. He really _was_ the evil Nate. "You win, Mr. Sterling."

"Not yet, Ms. Schulte. But it's a start."

* * *

**More?**


	6. Free Cryptic—Eliot

Eliot got out of his car and zipped his jacket over the badge he wore on a cord around his neck. He didn't know yet if the shelter cover story was the way to go—if things went south, he didn't want to worry about Maya's reputation. Then again, he didn't know how Tiana Cooper would react to having the cops show up at her door.

He glanced at Ron, who was on the sidewalk looking up at the worse-for-wear apartment building. From his expression, Eliot wondered how the other man was going to react to Tiana Cooper. Ron was a nice, decent guy—but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. "You gonna be all right?"

"Yes."

"Ron."

"_Yes._" He started up the walk.

Eliot shook his head and did the same. Sophie probably should've come with them, but someone had to keep an eye on things. Dougie was normally a level-headed kid, but he hadn't been happy about staying behind—and Parker wouldn't see anything wrong with a fourteen-year old running off to save his mama, especially if she went along. Sophie had a better chance of keeping both of them in the apartment than Hardison did, even if the hacker hadn't been working double time getting things ready for tomorrow _and_ running the few scraps of information they had through every database he could access.

Eliot and Ron were on their own, though the trackers in their earbuds were live. One missing person was already one too many.

The lobby was dark and smelled like stale cigarette smoke and old hamburgers. The elevator was out of order, but Eliot wouldn't have trusted it anyway. They headed for the stairs.

"Eliot?" said Ron, as they passed the second floor landing.

"Yeah?"

"You'd better do the talking."

"All right." Eliot had figured he'd take the lead, but it was good to have Ron's cooperation.

Eliot knocked on the door. After ten seconds, he knocked again.

A female voice said, "Who's there?"

"Tiana Cooper?" asked Eliot. "My name is Eliot Spencer. We'd like to talk to you."

The peephole in the door darkened.

Eliot tried to look concerned and unthreatening. "Ms. Cooper? Are you okay?"

"Go away or I'll call the police."

Decision made. He brought out his badge. "I am the police, Ms. Cooper."

Ten more seconds. The door opened the few inches the chain allowed and part of a woman's face appeared in the gap. "Let me see that."

Eliot dangled the badge in front of her eye. "We just have a few questions."

"You got a warrant?"

"I don't need a warrant to ask for your help," he said.

"Who's he?"

"My partner. You want to keep talking through the door?" he added, so she wouldn't demand to see the badge Ron didn't have. Or his name.

"Is this about Eddie?"

"Could be."

The door shut, then opened wider.

Eliot gave the room a quick once over. Yellowish carpet, shabby furniture, 32-inch TV with photos in cheap frames crowding the top. A couple of plastic crates and wood planks made a bookcase along one wall. Textbooks and _Twilight_.

He took a closer look at the photos on the TV, then turned to the sound of the chain sliding into place.

Tiana Cooper was young, maybe twenty, with improbably dark red hair and bruises on her wrists and right cheekbone. Her chin was up, but her eyes had pink smudges underneath them, as if she'd been crying.

"Did someone hurt you?" asked Ron in a gentle voice Eliot was relieved to hear.

She shrugged and pulled down the sleeves of her Roxbury Community College sweatshirt. "What do you want?"

"We'd like to talk to you about Jo Schulte," said Eliot.

"Who?" She sat down on the coffee table and Ron sat on the couch, probably so he wouldn't loom so much.

"Jo Schulte. A witness saw you together this afternoon. Could you tell us about that?"

"No. I've never even heard of her. Your witness is a liar."

Someone was. "If you've never heard of Jo" he said, "how do you know she's a she?"

Tiana went still. "Good guess?"

"Why did you leave the shelter this afternoon?"

"Where?"

"The Roxbury shelter. Did your boyfriend force you to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Be the bait for the kidnapping."

She didn't say anything.

"We know you walked out of the shelter and waited a couple blocks down the street. Jo Schulte saw you on the sidewalk and stopped—maybe you even flagged her down. She got out to talk to you and gave you her phone number in case you ever needed help."

He pulled the card out of his pocket and showed it to her, keeping it in front of her eyes when she tried to look away. "And then your boyfriend and his friends knocked her out, and dragged her into the house across the street before taking her God knows where. What we don't know is why, who, and where she is now."

Tiana folded her arms and mumbled something.

Ron's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"It's all her fault. She was supposed to fight."

Eliot shot Ron a warning glance. "Fight who?"

"Fight _them. _She's the one who got me out of here the first time. Eddie attacked her with a _knife_ and she took it away and threw him across the _room_. He got a month in jail. She was supposed to do it again—kick their asses and get them _arrested_, maybe even for good. But she didn't'." Her voice rose. "It's not _fair_."

Ron growled under his breath and Tiana flinched away. "Fair? You set her up without giving her any kind of warning—was that fair?"

"He said he'd hurt my sister and her kids if I didn't do what he said. I called her from the shelter a week ago and he _answered_ the _phone_ in her _kitchen_. . . what was I supposed to do?"

"Tell Jo. Tell Maya," said Eliot. He pointed to his badge. "Call us."

She shook her head. "Eddie would've found out. But if _she _messed up the plan . . . " She glanced at Ron.

"He'd be mad at her instead of you," said Eliot.

"Uh-huh. But she just stood there and let them take her."

Eliot started counting to ten, reminding himself between numbers that Tiana was a victim, too. Young, selfish, and dumb, but a victim.

Before he reached five, Ron spoke up. "You want to know why she didn't fight?" His voice was harsh. "She was protecting the baby."

Tiana blinked. "She's . . . ?"

"Yeah. Twelve weeks. It's high risk, so her doctor warned her to take it easy. No sparring, no _stress_ —"

Eliot interrupted. "But I'll bet she still got between you and them. Did she try to protect you, Tiana?"

She looked at her hands. "She told me to run. But where am I gonna run _to_? I can't go back to the shelter now, and if I go to my sister's, Eddie will find me. Roz can't leave either—she's got the kids and a good job."

"But you left her anyway," said Ron.

"What was I gonna do against three guys?" She pointed to her bruised face. "This is what I got for walking too slow." She shook her head.

"But you thought Jo could handle three guys?"

"Have you ever seen her fight?" Tiana's eyes were shiny. "I didn't know she was pregnant, or I wouldn't have done it. Any of it. I swear. I would've told Eddie to go to hell."

Eliot picked up a picture. "This is Eddie?"

She nodded.

Ron exhaled and leaned forward. "Ms. Cooper, I appreciate how tough things are for you. But we need to find Jo. We need to know if she and the baby are safe. Can you help us find her?

Tiana turtled her head between her shoulders. "Eddie will kill me—he'll hurt my family."

Eliot put the picture down. "You don't have to worry about Eddie anymore."

"He's been arrested before—even when I pressed charges that last time he was out in a—" She stopped. "You mean . . .?"

"I'm sorry for your loss," he lied.

Tiana stared at him and swallowed once, twice, before covering her mouth and running out of the room. A door slammed.

"You believe her?" asked Ron.

"I think so. Scared people do dumb things for family."

"You mean like Nate?"

Eliot glared at him. "Not the same."

"Guess not. Nate didn't get anyone else shot. Think she'll tell us what she knows?"

"Yeah. I just hope she knows something useful."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

An hour later, everyone gathered around the dining room table, which had been cleared by Dougie, who'd reluctantly accepted the need for more room.

"Well?" asked Sophie.

"She couldn't tell us much." Eliot shrugged. "Eddie didn't tell her anything much."

"Who?" asked Parker.

"The dead guy," said Dougie, coming in from the kitchen. He handed Ron a mug, earning a tired smile.

"She didn't know the other two guys and they didn't give their names. But Eddie called someone on the way to the ambush and asked if Tony got the knock-out gas for them."

Sophie tapped her cup with a manicured finger. "So we're looking for a Tony. She didn't know anything about why these men wanted Jo?"

"No," said Ron. "But Eddie told her it was the start of good things for him." He took a long swallow of coffee and put the cup down.

"Boy, was he wrong," said Parker.

"Did you find anything about Eddie?" asked Sophie.

"Edward Kevin Hayt," said Hardison. "Two bit player, no connections worth mentioning. Rap sheet is peanuts, except for the restraining orders—boy doesn't, sorry, _didn't_, like to take no for an answer . . . though he did like receiving and selling stolen goods . . . did a month for domestic assault, got out on probation. . . . and no one's found him yet." He looked up. "Does that give anyone else the willies?"

"No," said everyone except Sophie, who waved a hand.

"Y'all are . . . never mind. There's no one named Tony anywhere in his records— his roommate in prison was Ralph Knott, but he's still in there.

"What charge?" It probably didn't matter, but Eliot would rather have useless information than none at all.

"Involuntary manslaughter. Looks like he was a bodyguard who got a little enthusiastic. He's working off a six-month sentence."

"Six months?" Eliot raised his eyebrows. "That's kinda—"

Dougie interrupted. "Why haven't they called yet?"

"Doug," said Sophie in her gentlest voice. "These things take time—"

"It's been _hours_. What does that mean?"

Eliot wished to hell he knew. "It means that these people probably aren't looking for a ransom," he said. "They'd want to contact you before you called the police."

"Then what _do_ they want?" asked Ron.

"Mom's ticked a lot of people off," said Dougie.

"So have we," said Parker, looking uncharacteristically guilty. "What if they took her to get to us?"

"They didn't have to knock her out," said Eliot. "If they wanted revenge, they could have killed her right there and made sure we knew it. They want her alive." He held Dougie's gaze until the kid nodded.

"Maybe a swap?" asked Sophie. "One of us for Jo?"

"Or they want us to pull a job," said Hardison. "The bad kind."

Either seemed possible to Eliot. He wished he knew why Eddie was dead . . . there were too many possibilities, and only a few meant Jo would be kept relatively safe.

"Wait a minute," said Ron. "This doesn't have to be about you guys. Maybe someone wants Jo because of something she knows."

Dougie blinked. "You mean like—"

A trill cut through his question. Hardison frowned and started typing on his laptop like a madman.

"What?" asked Eliot.

"Call to Ron's number. I'm tracing it now." He pushed a button on the speaker set in the center of the table and pointed to Ron.

"Hello?" Ron's voice was strained.

"_Honey? It's me_."

Everyone sat up. Parker opened her mouth, but Sophie caught her wrist as Eliot glared and shook his head.

"Jo," said Ron. "Damn it, where are you?"

"_Southside_." Her voice was apologetic. "_I'm sorry I didn't call. My phone went dead—I guess I forgot to charge it. Listen, I have to work late tonight—I might as well stay over. I hated to miss Eliot's potato soup, but it'll be even better tomorrow, right?_"

Eliot scowled and shook his head. Jo only used his first name in emergency situations.

Ron tensed, but his voice was steady. "_Always is. I'm glad you're okay. I was worried_."

"I know, I'm sorry—time got away from me and then the phone . . . Is Dougie still awake?"

"_Sure. Just a second_."

Hardison pointed at Dougie and made a stretching gesture with his hands.

"Hey, Mom," said Dougie, sounding perfectly normal. "Pterodactyl?"

"_Pteranodon, buddy. You finish your homework_?"

"Yeah. Can Alice and I go running tomorrow?"

"_Hmmm. I'd kind of prefer it if you two kept going with your group. You're a little too young to be pairing off_."

"Mo-om! That's not fair!" His voice held genuine outrage.

She sighed. "_Maybe not. Ask your father. He's the boss_."

"Okay. Thanks, Mom. Love you."

"_Love you, too, kid. Give me your father, please_."

Ron paused. "Hey, what's the fuss?"

"_What else? He's growing up too fast for me_."

"They do that."

"_Yeah. I'd better get to work. I love you, boss man_."

"I love you, too. See you tomorrow."

There was a hesitation. "_Bye_."

And she was gone.

Ron reached out and squeezed Dougie's shoulder. "Good job."

Dougie blew out a breath and nodded. "You, too, Dad."

"Hardison," said Sophie. "Did you get it?"

"She called from somewhere on the east coast. I think."

"You _think_?" growled Eliot.

"Look, man." The hacker spun the laptop around, showing a screen full of red lines. "That call bounced all over the map like a ping-pong ball on speed—I'm damn sure she isn't calling from Sri Lanka, but I traced it there _twice_. She wasn't using a K-Mart throwaway cell. That was an untraceable, state of the art, cutting-edge communications device. You gotta be rich or powerful or both to have one of those." His eyes widened. "Or work for a government agency."

"_Which _government, Hardison?"

"Gimme a minute, I'll get you a list."

"Ron," said Sophie. "I'm assuming Jo was speaking in free cryptic?"

"Free what?"

"Cryptic, Parker. It's sort of half code, half shared experiences. If I called you and said I was having a craving for instant pudding, what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

"Someone gave you another bomb in a flower vase?"

"Exactly." She returned the thief's pleased smile and turned to Ron. "I'm assuming that Jo isn't really in south Boston?"

"Right. Southside is where the baby is." He and Dougie shared a grin. "Family joke. But if I had to guess, I don't think she's left the city. She would've dropped some kind of clue—she ferries people to Philadelphia about once a month."

"You're sure?"

"Sure as I can be. Dougie?"

"Mom doesn't think she's in too much trouble right now. If it was big, she'd have said quetzalcoatlus. If she wasn't in much, it would have been gnathosaurus."

"Relative wingspans?" asked Ron.

Dougie nodded. "The rest was about letting me—"

"I got that part," said Ron. "We'll talk about it later. Right now, I'm worried about why she needed to use code in the first place."

"She doesn't trust the guy she's with," said Parker. "He's playing nice for now, but he's dangerous. A natural enemy."

"How're you getting that?" asked Eliot.

"_Pteranodon, buddy_," quoted Parker, as if it explained everything. "Come on," she said. "It's _Dinosaur Train._"

Dougie's eyes opened wide. "I forgot about that."

"_Dinosaur Train?_" Sophie looked around. "Sorry, Parker, but I don't—"

Parke sighed. "Buddy is a T-Rex who was adopted by the Pteranodon family. Jo and I think that the happy family thing isn't going to last long once Buddy grows up." She giggled. "I said he'd sneak up on their nest one night and chow down, but _she_ said he'd force them to hunt for him so he _wouldn't_ . . . What?"

Hardison was the first to recover. "Damn, girl," he said. "You're pretty good at this."

Parker beamed.

"They—or he—wants her to find something," said Sophie.

"Or someone," said Eliot. "Jo hides people for a living—maybe she's supposed to find one."

"So we find whatever or whoever it is first," said Sophie. "And then we set a trap."

Parker frowned. "For Jo?"

"No," said Eliot, standing up. "For the sorry sons who thought it was a good idea to steal from us."

"They probably don't know she's ours," said Dougie, stifling a yawn.

"They will," said Parker, patting his shoulder.

* * *

**Sorry this is so late—I did something medically improbable and excruciatingly painful to my foot and the meds made it impossible to operate a **_**toothbrush**_**, much less a keyboard. Or a brain.**

**But the next chapter is half written already, so I'm back to updating at least once (and I hope twice) a week.**

**Please let me know what you think! Better on meds, or off? :D**


	7. The Conditions—Jo

Jo wanted to go _home_. She wanted to walk out of the hotel suite and grab a cab to the apartment—or better yet, tell Ron to come get her and bring the cavalry with him. The team would help her stop Robert Wencel without dragging Madeline into it. And then everything would be . . .

She glanced at the well-dressed man listening from the adjacent armchair.

. . . really, really complicated.

"I'd better get to work," she said, instead. "I love you, boss man."

"_I love you, too,_" said Ron, through the cell phone speaker. "_See you tomorrow."_

Jo sincerely hoped so. "Bye." She ended the call and handed the phone back to Sterling. "Thank you."

He smiled with everything but those sharp brown eyes. "We couldn't leave your family to worry."

"Of course not." She leaned back against the couch cushion. "They might call in reinforcements."

He smirked and tucked the phone away. "Something like that."

She wished she knew how much Sterling knew about her connection to the team. He'd mentioned Nate _after _she'd opened her big mouth and threatened him with Eliot's reputation—she couldn't be sure she hadn't tipped him off. And _she_ didn't know how much of the team's . . . activities . . . were covered by Nate's deal. She could accidentally give him ammunition against the team—and now he'd be waiting for it.

" . . . hesitated near the end," he said was saying.

"Yeah, I'm a lousy liar."

"You're too modest." He raised an eyebrow. "_Pterodactyl_?"

"It's an old family password," she said. "Stranger danger stuff. It's become an inside joke."

"Ah. _Pteranodon_ is the countersign?"

"No, it's the kind of day I've had. Or the kind of day I wanted my son to think I'm having." She closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to stretch out and sleep until morning. "_Q__uetzalcoatlus_is closer to the truth."

"Relative wingspan?"

Damn, but the man was quick. "Yeah. Dougie used to be all about the dinosaurs." And now he was too old to keep on the sidelines . . .there was no doubt in her mind that if she'd ordered him to stay away from any rescue attempts, he and Parker would already be tracking her down by themselves. She only hoped Ron and the team could keep him from trying anything outside of his abilities—and that "Alice" remembered their _Dinosaur Train_ conversation.

"Hmm. And what does _potato soup_ mean?"

"It means Wencel's goons made me miss dinner." She opened an eye, too tired to give him a full glare. "So did you."

"My apologies. Am I to understand that Eliot Spencer . . . cooked?"

"I don't much care what you understand, Mr. Sterling, but yes, Eliot Spencer makes great potato soup. Onion, bacon, real cream— " Her stomach growled. "Can we get room service or something? It's been a long time since lunch."

He looked at her with a faint smile on his face, as if he could see right through her. Jo knew she was supposed to squirm and blurt out the truth—or another lie, which would give him a tell he could use against her later, like a human polygraph setting a baseline.

She'd seen Nate do that.

The only two ways to beat it were to be a very good liar, or to tell the truth. Even years of coaching from certain grifters, shifters, and thieves hadn't turned Jo into a decent liar. But she'd become _very_ good at telling the truth, her way.

She yawned again and amused herself by making a list of baby names that would give her mother-in-law fits.

After thirty seconds, Sterling's smile went rueful and he nodded as if conceding a point. "Chinese or Mexican?"

"Chinese. Moo shu chicken, double order of potstickers. And I'll need a toothbrush."

He stood and went to the hotel phone. "I'll see what I can do, Ms. Schulte."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Jo wrapped the rest of her chicken and veggies in a pancake, dipped the end in plum sauce and took a bite.

"You have a healthy appetite," said Sterling, setting his chopsticks down next to his empty lo mein carton. His lavender shirt didn't have a spot of sauce on it.

She wiped her fingers on a napkin. "Are there any potstickers left?"

"No." He leaned over, picked up a plastic bag and tossed it to her. "The toothbrush you requested—and a few other things you might need."

"Thanks." Maybe he wasn't all bad.

"My pleasure." He leaned back. "Where is Madeline Wencel?"

So much for that. "I don't know."

"But you can find her."

"I don't know. But even if I could—and it won't be easy—I'll need a good reason to break her trust."

"If her husband finds her first—"

She raised her eyebrows. "He can't, or he wouldn't have come at me."

He raised his. "Help me and I'll make sure he never tries again."

"No offense, but you didn't stop him the first time."

"Neither did you."

Fair enough, not that she'd let him know that. "One more time before I walk. Why do you want Madeline Wencel?"

He considered her for a moment. "Because Robert Wencel wants her."

"And you want Wencel."

"I have him—what I want is the contents of a certain safety deposit box."

"You're Interpol," she said. "Get a search warrant."

"I did. It appears that Mrs. Wencel emptied the box right before she, ah . . . disappeared."

"But you can arrest him without it."

He shrugged. "I could . . . "

"But you won't."

"No. If those files are what I think they are—"

"Which means you don't _know_."

"—we'll be able to put him away for a very long time. Without them, it wouldn't be worth filling out the paperwork." He smirked. "The fact is, I need you and you need me."

She needed James Sterling like she needed another hole in her head. . . but to be honest, she was stuck. This afternoon had proved she couldn't defend herself the way she used to—and if she asked the team for help, they'd run right into Sterling's operation. Again. And now that Nate wasn't there to run even misguided interference . . .

Wait a minute.

She shook her head. The baby was obviously sucking her brain into her uterus.

"What?" he said.

"I'll help you on two conditions."

"Name them."

"You don't see Madeline without me. I'm the one who approaches her, I'm the one who talks to her. If she has the files, I'll try to get them for you. You will _not_ force her in any way."

"Agreed. And?"

"I want to speak to Nathan Ford."

Jo didn't think many things startled the man, but that had. He blinked twice and his smile disappeared. "I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Then you've got a problem," Jo said, giving him a level look. "Because Nathan Ford is the only one who knows where she is."

* * *

**More, yes? More, no? Why?**


	8. Beau Vous—Eliot

The waiting room of _Beau Vous_ Cosmetic Surgeons was chic, expensive, and artificial.

That was also Eliot's take on the top-heavy, over-sculpted blonde behind the smooth expanse of front desk. As he watched, she tapped her Bluetooth headset and started speaking. Her expression never changed. He wondered if it could.

"Amazing what they're doing with plastics nowadays," murmured Sophie.

"Mmmm," said Eliot, trying to figure out nature from man-made, since it was all on display. He winced as he caught an elbow to the sternum. "What was that for?" he asked, rubbing the spot as he followed her to the desk.

"_Hey, y'all,_' said Hardison. "_Parker and I are back from the dentist. No missing Xenoflurane, no one named Tony on staff, or even _involved_ with anyone on staff—hygienists are _all _about the gossip. But I have an appointment for a cleaning next week, so it wasn't a complete waste of time."_

_"Speak for yourself," _said Parker. "_They were out of purple toothbrushes."_

The woman finished her call and gave Sophie an assessing look. "You must be Dr. Broddson's ten o'clock. Botox and implants?"

"I _beg _your—"

"Actually, she's with me," said Eliot, crowding Sophie out of the way before she could open fire. "We're here to talk to the office manager."

"I'm the office manager." Her eyes made a different kind of assessment and her overfull lips curved. "Toni Hoyle." She offered a hand. "How can I help you?"

"_Let me count the ways,"_ said Hardison.

Eliot smiled. "I'm David Spencer," he said, taking Toni's hand and turning up the charm. "We're from KOG Distribution. We're here to check your supply of Xenoflurane gas."

Her hand went rigid in his grip and she pulled away. "Xenoflurane?" she said, as if she'd never heard of it.

Sophie cleared her throat. "The wrong canister may have been mistakenly sent here with your last shipment. Xenophosphate. We'll need to check your inventory." She held up a sheaf of printouts.

Toni did her best to frown at the documents, but couldn't get her forehead to cooperate. She handed back the paperwork. "Now?"

"Right now," said Eliot. "You don't want to give Xenophosphate to your clients—talk about malpractice suits. Anyone exposed would be looking at permanent lung damage."

Toni blinked. "Lung damage? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," said Sophie. "The stuff's deadly."

"I'll get the keys."

"Whoops, wait a minute," said Eliot. "Your headset . . ." He reached out and gently readjusted it. "There."

She offered him a nervous smile and disappeared through a door.

"How obvious can you get?" said Sophie.

"Me or her?"

"Both. Hardison?"

"_Bug's working. She calls anyone, I'll know."_

"What if she doesn't use the headset?" asked Sophie.

"Doesn't matter," said Eliot, smiling. "The bug's on her collar."

They waited. Sophie picked up a brochure titled, _You, Even Better._ "Eliot," she asked. "Do you think I—?"

He took the brochure away and put it back. "No."

"_Bingo," _said Hardison. "_Listen to this."_

_"Gary?"_ Toni said in Eliot's ear. "_Did you use the gas, yet?"_

A muffled male voice said, "_Not _now_, Toni. I'm busy here."_

_"Gary, baby, listen—did you use the gas?" _

"_Yeah, we used it. Damn stuff wore off too soon."_

_"It didn't kill her?"_

"_What? No, it didn't kill her. But I might, after the boss is done with her."_

Eliot growled under his breath, stopping only when Sophie touched his arm.

_"As long as you're okay . . ."_

_"I will be, once we find the bitch and get our money. Look, I gotta go. I'll call you."_

_"Okay. Bye, baby." _

"Hardison, did you get a number?" asked Sophie.

"_Nope. I only heard two keys—she probably has Gary baby on speed dial."_

Toni came back with a set of keys, a stack of brochures, and a bright smile. "I'll take you to the supply room," she said to Eliot. "Oh, and here," she said, handing Sophie the stack. "I thought you might want to look through these. I put the one on liposuction on top."

"_Girl's got a death wish,"_ said Hardison.

Eliot steered Toni away from the outraged gasp and walked beside her. When they stopped, Sophie bumped into them, knocking Toni off her stilettos. Eliot caught her and set her back on her feet. "Careful, there," he said, palming her phone.

"Oh, I am sorry," said Sophie. "Tell me—is this tooth-brightening procedure the only one you can't_ personally_ recommend?"

Eliot winced and quickly checked Toni's outgoing calls. He noted the information, cleared the search, and moved between the two women before things escalated.

"Thank you," he said, taking Toni's keys while returning her phone with his other hand. He unlocked the door and passed back the keyring. "Here you go, darlin', he said. "We'll check with you when we're done."

"Please do." Toni shot Sophie a smug look and undulated away.

He herded Sophie into the room and turned on the light. "Hardison, check these numbers." He gave the contact info.

"_On it."_

Eliot looked around and found the Xenoflurane cartons along the back wall. "When was the last shipment? Sophie?"

She huffed out a breath. "Can you believe that . . . that science experiment?"

"Forget her," said Eliot, looking over the boxes. "You're the real deal, and she knows it." He wasn't lying—even when she'd been roaming the world trying to find herself, they'd all depended on her. She might have dropped the ball once or twice, but he knew she'd never do it again.

"The real deal?" She went pink and her eyes went bright. "Me?"

"Yeah, you. What, we all have to kiss you to prove it?"

The pink went red, but she laughed a little. "Um, that won't be necessary."

"_Too bad,_" said Hardison, a smile in his voice. "_Ouch_! _Woman, what was that for?"_

_"Sorry," _said Parker, sounding anything but. "_Do I need plastic surgery?"_

"_Over my dead body," _said Hardison.

"Can we focus here, please?" said Eliot, shifting a box. "Tape's been stripped from this one and stuck back on. Sloppy." He pulled off the tape and opened the carton, showing a full double row of green-labeled canisters. "It's full."

"_Maybe she subbed one," _said Hardison.

"She'd go for something easy," said Sophie. "Nothing that would wreck her manicure. What?"

Eliot hid his smile. "Nothin'." He worked his way to the fourth canister. "This one's empty," said Eliot, lifting it easily. He read off the code.

"That one was marked as unused on the KOG form," said Sophie, flipping pages. "But the in-house form says it was sent back for a recharge. Toni's been a bad girl."

"_She's not the only one," _said Hardison. _"Gary Somers has done some time. Assault, robbery, stolen goods. In fact, he and dead guy Eddie have something in common."_

"Let me guess," said Eliot, closing the box. "A cellmate?"

"_Bingo. Ralph Knott. Gary roomed with him a year ago."_

_"_Knott put Gary in touch with Eddie?" Eliot asked.

"_Be my guess. They aren't connected otherwise."_

"So why would these guys want Jo?"

Sophie pulled a large green sticker out of her inventory papers and handed it to Eliot, who applied it over the Xenoflurane label. "Hardison, who did Mr. Knott work for?"

"_Uh . . . Robert Wencel._"

The name sounded familiar. "Jo might have mentioned something a while ago . . . one of her shelter jobs, maybe? Ask Ron."

"_He and Dougie are at the Gym teaching Jo's self defense classes," _said Parker. "_They'll be home soon."_

"Good," said Eliot. "You ready?" He put on some work gloves and a white breathing mask.

Sophie nodded and took her own mask out of her pocket.

"_What about the Barbie doll?"_ asked Parker. "_Is she going to get away with it?"_

"We're taking the empty canister with us," said Sophie. "Once Jo's safe, we'll send copies of the forms and a recording of the phone call to her boss. When she tries to explain why the canister is missing, KOG won't have any record of us, or of any product called Xenophosphate. Let's see her wriggle out of that one."

"What goes around, comes around," said Eliot, pulling his mask up. "Let's go." He picked up the canister, holding it as if he didn't want it too close to his face.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"Anything?" asked Ron, the minute he closed the door behind Dougie, who dragged himself to the couch.

"We think so," said Eliot, keeping an eye on the kid. Ron might look more at peace that he had before Jo's call, but Eliot knew for a fact that Dougie hadn't slept much. "Does the name Wencel mean anything to you?"

"Wencel?" Ron sat down at the table. "_Robert_ Wencel kidnapped Jo?" He rubbed his face with both hands and cursed under his breath.

Eliot took that as a yes. "He was one of Jo's special jobs?"

Ron nodded. "Madeline Wencel. How the hell did he _find_ her?"

"His ex-bodyguard shared a cell with Tiana Cooper's boyfriend," said Hardison. "And you know Eddie had some nice things to say about Jo."

"Damn. Never crossed our minds."

"How bad was it?" asked Eliot. He figured it couldn't have been too bad—Jo hadn't called him.

Ron glanced at Dougie, but went on. "Mrs. Wencel had a broken leg, a couple of broken ribs, and a houseful of her husband's employees watching her. Jo didn't know how she was going to get her out of there, short of a S.W.A.T. team. "

"How did she?" asked Sophie.

"She went to Nate."

Eliot scowled. "Why didn't she ask me?" He had no right or reason to feel betrayed, but that didn't help any.

"You were in Oklahoma," said Ron, without accusation. "Jo said she wasn't going to bother you."

"What were you doing in Oklahoma?" asked Hardison, making it sound like Outer Mongolia.

"I had to take care of some stuff," said Eliot, transferring his scowl to the hacker. It was no one's business that after all the things he'd done and seen, his friend's miscarriage had sent him running back to the safest place he knew, where he'd broken as many horses as his foreman could get, about as far as his trainer would allow, until he was too tired to feel anything.

"Nate helped Jo with an extraction?" asked Sophie. "That seems a little . . . straightforwardfor him."

"He helped with the difficult ones, every once in a while," Ron told her, though he looked straight at Eliot."I think he wanted to take his mind off something." Ron's expression said he knew why Eliot had disappeared.

"Jo took away Wencel's wife?" asked Parker. "Does he want her back?"

"I'm not sure a man like Robert Wencel would involve so many outsiders in something this personal," said Sophie, looking thoughtful. "But I'll bet Nate added insult to financial injury."

"Looks like . . . half his personal portfolio disappeared about two weeks after your funeral," said Hardison. "And who knows what else. No wonder the guy's ticked off."

"Okay," said Sophie. "Let's assume he wants his wife . . . ah . . ."

"Madeline," said Hardison, typing away.

"—Madeline and whatever she took in place of alimony."

"So we get to her, and it, first."

"That's going to be a problem," said Ron. "Because as far as I know—"

"Oh, hell and damn," said Hardison, lifting his hand from his laptop in shock. He plunged his fingers back down and jabbed at the keys. He closed the lid, shoved it away, and pulled out his souped up raspberry, or whatever the hell it was.

Everyone stared at him. Eliot spoke first. "What the—"

"Red flags." Hardison's stylus danced over the small screen. "Two or three different _shades_ of red, at least four different _nationalities_ of flags . . ." He scribbled for a minute and then relaxed. "Had to cut it off before they traced us," he said. "Whew! Wencel is in some serious trouble. He's got F.B.I., Scotland Yard, Interpol, I think maybe the Mounties . . ."

"Interpol?"

"Yeah. They—" Hardison's eyes opened wide. "Aw, _hell_ no."

"That's not _possible_," said Sophie.

Eliot just closed his eyes and tried to keep his blood vessels from bursting all at once. His fingernails bit into his palms and he heard his knuckles pop.

"It's him," said Hardison. "You know it's gotta be him. Just ask yourself what would make things _worse_ and try not to see his face. Ugh, I think I threw up in my mouth a little."

"Shut up, Hardison," said Eliot, his temper flaring out at the handiest target.

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?" asked Ron in a quiet voice that promised dire things if that someone didn't speak up _now_.

Sophie sighed. "Whomever Jo is with is acting friendly, for now, but she doesn't trust him—"

"Because she's not dumb," said Eliot

"—and when you put that with Interpol . . ." she shrugged. "Our own red flags go up."

Ron blinked. "You mean she's with that Interpol guy Nate used to work with?"

"The jerk who keeps using you to get promoted?" asked Dougie. "What's his name?"

"Sterling," said Eliot. His knuckles cracked again. "Sterling's got her."

"We don't _know_ that," said Sophie. "Let's all just relax and think. This doesn't change anything—"

"Yeah, just _everything_," muttered Hardison.

"He obviously needs Jo's help," said Sophie. "And if Sterling needs her, he'll keep her safe from Wencel's goons."

"But what if Sterling really wants _our_ help?" asked Parker. "Does he know about her and us? We and she?" She gestured with both hands. "We?"

"Us," said Dougie.

"Maybe," said Eliot. "If he found out Ron and I are co-owners of The Gym, then he'd probably guess that Jo's met me. But I'm not sure he'd automatically think she knows the rest of you."

"Mom won't tell," said Dougie. "She even used code for the baby."

"Sterling is tricky," said Parker.

"Sterling is the devil," said Hardison. "I don't care what my Nana said."

"Yeah, but she won't let him trick her twice," said Eliot. "And she won't give him anything important unless she has to."

"I agree," said Sophie. "And it seems unlikely any of us will come up in conversation, anyway. Now, let's see about locating Madeline Wencel. Ron? Do you have any idea where she might be?"

Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said. "About that . . ."

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who've been alerting and reviewing!**

**Comments keep me writing when the caffeine runs out. Seriously.**

**And thanks to everyone who asked me about my foot. I'm walking without props or painkillers now - and the story is coming along a lot easier!**


	9. The Visit—Jo

Jo opened her eyes, awake and aware before she heard her name. Light sleeping was an ingrained habit now; what survival instinct had given her, motherhood had kept.

She sat up, tossing aside the blanket, and wished she hadn't. Swallowing carefully, she took inventory. Sore wrists, bruised knuckles, aching back—that last one might have been her choice of sleeping arrangements—and just a little touch of . . . She swallowed and kept very still.

Sterling, shaved and resplendent in charcoal slacks and burgundy shirt, smirked at her from the doorway. "Our flight leaves in two hours," he said. He sipped from a coffee cup. "Wouldn't the bed have been more comfortable?"

She stared at him, swallowed again as the scent of coffee tickled her nose, and bolted for the bathroom.

Some time later, she splashed cold water on her face. At least the nausea never lasted long, once she gave in and threw up. She felt fine now—hungry even—aside from the embarrassment. And the company.

Sterling handed her a sample-sized bottle of mouthwash. "Moo shu?"

She took a swig, swished until she couldn't stand it, and spat blue into the sink. "Morning sickness," she said, making a decision she hoped she wouldn't regret. But he'd mentioned an airplane, and she was sure he wouldn't take fear of flying as an excuse.

He blinked. "How far along?"

"Twelve weeks." She capped the bottle, handed it back, and picked up her toothbrush.

"Inconvenient."

"Miracles are like that," she said, unscrewing the toothpaste top. "Please go away."

To her mild surprise, he did, leaving behind a shopping bag. After locking the door, she stuck the brush in her mouth and investigated. A t-shirt, a three pack of socks, and a four pack of underwear. All in her size.

She shook her head. What was it about her that made men want to dress her? The first time she'd met Spencer, he'd done her laundry and bought her underwear. The first time she'd met Ron, he'd given her a set of sweats and she thought Nate had loaned her some sweatpants, too. Hardison had given her an earbud, if that counted. And now this.

It was enough to give a girl a complex.

But not enough for her to refuse clean clothes, considering the circumstances. And at least everything was in utilitarian white, which was a relief— a peacock like Sterling probably had far more exotic taste in private, something she really, really didn't want to think about.

She turned on the shower. The pulse setting wasn't as good as one of Ron's backrubs, but it was close enough. Her muscles complained that sleeping on the couch hadn't been one of her better ideas, but it was outside the line of sight from the door and provided three escape routes from the room—even if one of them was a windowless bathroom.

Spencer hadn't had to teach her anything about paranoia.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

When Jo came out of her room, clothed and clean, she found Sterling at the small table where they'd eaten the night before, staring with a brooding expression at a lidded take-away cup. "Tea doesn't set you off, does it?"

"Not so far. Just coffee. And eggs, peanut butter, sausage, baloney and cold pizza."

"This changes things," he said.

She didn't bother to pretend he was talking about breakfast. "Does it?" she asked, taking a seat.

He raised his gaze to hers. "If I'd known you were pregnant, Ms. Schulte, I never would have asked for your assistance." He gave her a wry smile. "Despite what you may have heard, I'm not a monster."

She shrugged. "But Wencel is. He's not going to stop coming after me and my family just because I'm pregnant. This," she patted her stomach, "just gives him another potential hostage."

"I can offer you and your family use of a safehouse."

"For how long? Do you think you can talk Mr. Ford into telling you what he did with Madeline? I'm the one who asked him for help in the first place."

"And how did you meet Nathan Ford?"

She kept her voice even. "Eliot sometimes helps me escort abuse victims to the shelter when they can't escape on their own and won't call the police. I was having trouble figuring out how to get Madeline Wencel out and Eliot said Mr. Ford was good at planning things like that. So I asked for a meeting." All absolutely true . . . if not chronological. And there was no way she was telling him a sociopath kidnapped Spencer and she needed help getting him back.

"And how do you know Eliot Spencer?"

"He's my husband's business partner. I'm surprised you don't know this already." Jo was pretty sure he had; Hardison had mapped most of her life in under thirty minutes— Sterling had had all night to access his Interpol resources.

She was a little surprised he hadn't offered her Saltine crackers to settle her stomach _before_ she'd thrown up.

He drummed his fingers. "I've no doubt that Nathan would see it my way . . . eventually. But I'll admit that time is of the essence." He drummed a few more times before producing his phone and punching in a number. "We will be revisiting your relationship with—Ah, yes. May I please speak to Dr. Harbanks? It's concerning her patient, Josephine Schulte. Not exactly an emergency, no, but it is important that I speak to her. Thank you."

So Sterling knew the name and number of her obstetrician—Jo couldn't decide whether that meant he had already known about her pregnancy . . . or that she'd spent longer in the shower than she'd thought. Either way, the presumption was ticking her off.

He took a sip of tea, made a face, and set it far away from him. "Dr. Harbanks? This is James Sterling of IYS. Ms. Schulte is doing some work for us, and I wanted to know—no, I'm not asking for personal details, but may I ask if a short airplane flight would offer any risk to either Ms. Schulte or the baby? This afternoon and back again tomorrow . . . She'd be in the air about forty-five minutes each way . . . No, private. "

He shot Jo a look as he listened. "I promise you, all precautions will be taken. . . . Thank you, doctor. I'm sure Ms. Schulte has your private pager number—good. Might we have it, for emergencies? "He repeated a number Jo had by heart. "Thank you. Of course I will. Good-bye. "

He tucked the phone away. "Dr. Harbanks says hello. Gather your things together, please."

"You could have asked _me_ if I could fly." Or let her talk to her _own_ doctor.

"Forgive me for exercising caution, Ms. Schulte. You used the word _miracle_—and you don't strike me as a woman given to exaggeration." He gave her a searching look. "It appears I was right. Not many women get a private pager number at 12 weeks."

"No," she said, getting up and heading for her room. "They don't."

Jo was glad to have Dr. Harbanks go-ahead for the flight, but that didn't mean she owed Sterling any private information. She suspected his protests about the risks to her were all for show—the James Sterling she'd heard about wouldn't give much of a damn, as long as he got what he wanted. And anything that happened to her now was all with her consent.

The man was slick, all right.

She just hoped he wouldn't figure out that she didn't give much of a damn about his manipulation as long as she got what _she _wanted.

And right now Jo wanted to talk to Nate Ford about more than Madeline Wencel.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

The flight was comfortable. Check-in to the facility where Nate was staying . . . . wasn't.

"Not even the TSA is this thorough," she said, as she watched her shoes disappear into the x-ray machine and a guard wanded her and patted her down. "No offense meant," she added, as the guard stood aside to let her pass.

"None taken, I'm sure," said Sterling, ushering her to a window next to a sliding gate. "James Sterling, Interpol. Here to see Nathan Ford in room five." He showed his ID and signed the sheet on the clipboard and handed Jo the pen while he pulled out a small wallet and handed it to her.

She opened it and saw her face looking out of a brand new Massachusetts driver's license. She showed it to the guard and signed in. The gate slid open.

The moment they cleared it, Sterling held out his hand for the wallet. "I'll keep that for you, Ms. Schulte." His tone brooked no argument.

She slapped it into his palm. "You have serious trust issues."

"Mmmm. I can't imagine why."

Two more gates and she was led into a room. She was expecting a two-way mirror, but the walls were bare and solid. The only windows were far too high to let anything in but sunlight and anything out, period. There was a long table and a few chairs clustered at one end.

In one of them was Nathan Ford.

Orange—mused the small part of Jo's mind that _wasn't _busy keeping her from hugging him—wasn't really his color. Neither was stainless steel, she thought, as the cuffs rattled against the legs of his chair.

"I've brought you a visitor today," said Sterling.

"Hello, Mr. Ford," said Jo. "Do you remember me?"

Nothing in Nate's posture or expression indicated surprise or concern. "Hello, Ms. Schulte. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Robert Wencel tried to have me kidnapped," she said.

Nate's spine straightened—just a little, but Jo saw it. "Revenge? Or information?"

"Probably both," said Sterling. "MR.s Wencel emptied a very important safety deposit box on her way out of town. If she left town."

Nate ignored him. "Tell me about it."

Jo glanced at Sterling and started talking, glossing over a few things and using free cryptic with others. ". . . And here we are."

"So now you _want _me to tell you where Madeline Wencel is?" he asked.

"I'm hoping you could just tell me where that stuff from the safety deposit box is hidden."

He shook his head. "That, I don't know. And I suppose Sterling here won't arrest him without whatever it is."

"Got it in one, Mr. Ford." She cleared her throat. "I'm not afraid for me . . . but if he comes after my children . . ."

Nate's eyes widened. "I thought you only had a son."

She couldn't help but grin and touch her stomach. "Twelve weeks yesterday," she said. "Wencel kind of interrupted our celebration."

For a moment, his whole face brightened. "Hey, that's—congratulations, Ms. Schulte."

"Thank you." She grinned back. "But the doctors are telling me I have to take it easy, and this is about as stressful a situation as I can think of. Can you help me, one more time?"

Nate's expression went grave. "Well, I'm still not—" He broke off as Sterling's phone rang.

Sterling took it out, glanced at the number, and went into a corner to mutter in a low voice.

"Mr. Ford," said Jo, mindful of recording devices. "It really is good to see you again."

"Don't worry,' he said, keeping his voice low. "Sterling has all the cameras and microphones turned off in here during his little visits. He doesn't share well with others. I'm so happy to hear about the baby. Ron must be over the moon."

"Dougie, too, I think," she said. "How're you holding up?"

"Not bad for someone who was shot a couple months ago. I wish someone had loaned _me _a Kevlar vest," he said, referencing the first time they'd worked together.

"Did you think to ask?" she shot back, in the same, slightly sarcastic voice.

Nate started to say something, but stopped to look at Sterling, whose voice was rising.

". . . do we _pay_ you for? Never mind!" He said a bad word very loudly and jammed his phone into his pocket. "Someone just tried to access restricted files on Robert Wencel."

"Don't look at me," said Nate, easily. "I don't even have TV privileges in here."

Jo tried to look puzzled instead of alarmed. It didn't have to be Hardison—the odds were better that Wencel himself wanted to know what kind of information the agency had on him-but she knew it was him all the same. It wasn't always a good thing to be the best there was.

Sterling's frown deepened. He walked to the table. "Show me your ears," he ordered Jo in a voice that reminded her that he was a dangerous man.

"What?"

"Show me," he said, "your ears."

Nate spoke in a quiet voice. "Sterling, she doesn't know what you're talking about."

"I'm waiting."

Jo slowly tucked her hair back, and put her hands on the table so he wouldn't think she'd palmed anything. She flinched as Sterling gripped her chin and was careful not to resist as he moved her head to one side and the other, though she couldn't keep her hands from clenching into fists.

"Sterling," said Nate, his own voice dangerous.

Sterling backed away, hands up. "My apologies, Ms. Schulte. These are trying times."

"Tell me about it," she said, having no trouble expressing outrage. "What were you looking for, waxy build up?"

He ignored her and looked at Nate. "Are you going to tell us where you sent Madeline Wencel?"

"No," said Nate.

"_No_," said Sterling. "May I remind you—"

"I'm going to tell Ms. Schulte. You are not invited. Or," he said, as Sterling opened his mouth, "we can wait for my lawyer. I think she's in Germany at the moment."

"You acted as your own counsel," growled Sterling.

"I'm thinking of making a change." Nate gave his patented innocent smile. "You know what they say about a man who defends himself."

Sterling's lip curled and Jo didn't have to guess what he wanted to say. He visibly restrained himself. "Five minutes," he said, and stalked out.

"You really get under his skin," said Jo.

Nate smiled. "Mmmm. I can't imagine why. But we don't have much time before he gets the recording devices turned back on." His hand shot out to grab hers. "How are they?"

"Surviving. Parker thinks you're an idiot, Hardison is hurt that you didn't let them help, and Spencer . . . he's still pretending you don't exist." Jo pulled away. "Do you know how hard it is for them? They trusted you to trust _them._ Do you have any idea—"

"I have a very good idea," he said, and she could see the tired pain in his eyes. "Believe me. But what about Sophie . . . is she . . . does she—"

"Forgive you? Of course she will, you martyred son-of-a-bitch. How could you do this to her? You know how she feels about you."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek. "Sophie can hold her own."

She snorted. "She's too soft on you—I would have broken your jaw. Of all the self-important, selfish—"

"I would have thought you of all people would understand. We do what we have to, to keep our loved ones _safe_." His blue gaze seared into her eyes. "We'll do anything at all, because we failed once—and facing their anger and hatred is better than burying them."

Jo's breath hissed out. "You don't play your own team."

"Do they know you're here?" he said, so quietly that the words seemed like telepathy. "With Sterling?"

She stared at him, wanting to belt him one, just for being right. She'd bet that almost everyone he met felt the same way. She opened her mouth to ask, but he reached out and patted her hand. "I'm sorry you've had such a rough time, Ms. Schulte."

She sighed, and rubbed her eyes. "Please just tell me where Madeline Wencel is," she said, not bothering to keep her voice down. "I want to go home. I miss my family."

Nate blew out a breath. "I can relate," he said. "Madeline Wencel is in the last place you'd look—or want to."

She waited. "Can you be more specific?"

He raised his eyebrows. "The _very_ last."

Jo thought about that. The last place she'd want to . . . Her eyes widened. "No. No _way._"

He smiled, and damn if his eyes didn't _twinkle._ "Bet you a hundred?"

She closed her eyes. "Mr. Sterling!"

The door opened. "Yes?"

She stood. "We're done here." She held out her hand. "Have a good sentencing, Mr. Ford."

"Thank you, Ms. Schulte," he said, giving her fingers a squeeze. "Please give my regards to your family."

Jo walked past Sterling and the two guards and kept going down the hall until she was stopped by the gate. She glanced at Sterling, who had caught up. "How do you keep from punching him in the nose?"

"It's a constant temptation, believe me. Where are we headed?"

Damn it, damn it, _damn it_.

"Franklinsburg," she said, through her teeth. "We're going to goddamn Franklinsburg."

* * *

**If all isn't clear, it soon will be. I hope.**

**More?**


	10. The Job Offer—Eliot

**Sorry for the delay―paying work comes before fun work!**

* * *

Eliot slammed around the kitchen, slinging a pot into the sink and jamming the faucet on full force. "This just keepfs getting better and better," he growled under his breath.

"Spencer?"

"Yeah, kid." Eliot shut off the water and set the pot on the stove. "Garlic linguine okay?"

"Sure. Need any help?"

Eliot tossed him a head of garlic. "You can peel these."

He'd expected an argument, but Dougie separated the cloves without comment and pressed a few with the back of a serving spoon. The kid obviously had something on his mind―be strange if he didn't.

Eliot waited.

Dougie peeled off the papery skin and pushed the clean garlic into a pile. "Is Mom really with the jerk who arrested Uncle Nate?"

"We don't know for sure." But every instinct he had told him it was Sterling. And when he got his hands on that son of a―

"I know you all hate him," said Dougie, fiddling with the spoon. "And I get why . . . but I need you to tell me the truth about something."

"Shoot."

"If it's him, will he watch her back?" He met Eliot's gaze. "Will he keep her safe until it's over?"

Eliot opened his mouth, then shut it and gave the question some thought. The kid deserved a straight, honest answer. He wished he had one. "I don't know. Maybe. As far as I know, he's never hurt a law abiding citizen―by his definition. If she can keep him from knowing how close she is to the team, he'll treat her like one." He grimaced. "He thinks he's the good guy."

"He isn't?"

Eliot gathered ingredients while he thought. "Officially, yeah, but . . . he believes the ends justify the means. He uses people to get what he wants."

Dougie blinked. "Um . . . isn't that sort of what you guys do?"

Eliot scowled. "Yeah, that's what we do. But we don't lie to ourselves that we're on the straight and narrow while we're doing it."

"It's a fine line, but it's there," said Sophie, from the doorway. "Remind me to give you my 'shades of gray' speech when this is over."

"If you come speak to my Ethics Class, I can get extra credit. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need it."

"I think I'd enjoy that. But, Dougie, Eliot's right. If it is Sterling who has your mother, she'll be fine. She's done nothing he can arrest her for―nothing major, anyway. The shelter will back her up, and so will the people she's helped. And there's something else to consider," she said, looking at Eliot. "If Jo could fight her way free from Wencel's goons, then she can escape from whomever she's with. There's a reason she's staying."

Dougie nodded. "She's trying to protect us. Like Uncle Nate did."

"She needs to think about herself and the baby," said Eliot, slicing into a tomato and leaving a gouge on the wooden board. He did it again.

"That may be part of it," said Sophie. "I doubt Wencel would move against an Interpol agent. Eliot," she added gently, "I don't think that tomato is secretly Yakuza."

Eliot glared at her, but shifted his grip.

"Okay," said Dougie. "So how do we find out for sure if she's with this guy?"

"Well, we can't ask her directly," said Sophie. "It's obvious she can't speak freely. I'm wondering if she'd tell us if she could."

"Of course she would," said Eliot. "She knows how we feel about him."

"Yes," said Sophie. "She does."

Dougie pressed the spoon down on another clove. "What if we―"

Parker ducked her head into the kitchen. "Jo's on the phone!"

Dougie shot through the door, followed closely by Sophie and Eliot.

Ron was talking into Hardison's contraption on the table. ". . . don't like you working so hard, Jo. Can't you even come home to pack a change of clothes?"

"There's no time, honey―emergencies aren't scheduled."

"I know, but―"

"But I promised Dr. Harbanks I'd scale back, and I will. This is the last one, I _promise. _After this one, I'll swear I'll only move between the couch and the bathroom for the next six months."

Jo wasn't hiding her pregnancy anymore―Eliot didn't know why, but he was relieved. Even Sterling―if it was Sterling―would think twice about sending a pregnant woman into danger.

"I'd hold you to that, if I didn't think you'd go stir crazy," said Ron. "Just hurry home. We miss you."

"_I miss you, too. Is Dougie around_?"

"Sure. Just a second."

Hardison held up a hand and counted down five fingers before pointing at Dougie.

"Hey, Mom. Pterodactyl?"

_"Still ____Pteranodon__, kid. I'm escorting someone out of town―way out. Looks like I won't be home for a couple of days. You two going to be okay on your own_?"

"Oh, sure! I mean, we'll miss you and everything, but I've got some friends over to play Risk and Dad made his famous chili, so―"

Ron and Eliot shared a frown. Ron hated chili.

_"I've been replaced by war games and jalapeños?"_

"No one can replace you, Mom," said Dougie, sounding far more serious than a fourteen-year old should. "Hey," he added, "I almost forgot: can silver spoons go in the dishwasher?"

_"Silver spoons? What silver . . . _" Jo paused and when she spoke a moment later, her voice had changed. "_Douglas Franklin Schulte, you are _not _using your grandmother's good silver to eat chili! Tell me you haven't used them yet."_

"Well . . ."

_"Dougie! Wash them off in the sink, _carefully_, put them back in the box and back away. That stuff's off limits, kid―to you, your friends, _and _your father. Or I will teach you the meaning of risk. Understand?"_

"Yeah." Dougie drew in a breath. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't know."

_"Now you do." _She sighed._ "And I'm sorry for yelling. I'm tired and the little critter is tough on my temper. You should be glad you aren't here to witness my mood swings. Or the morning sickness."_

"Are you okay, Mom?"

"_I'm fine. Just keep my stress levels in mind, okay?"_

"I'll try."

_"Fair enough. I love you_."

"Love you, too, Mom. You need Dad?"

She chuckled_. "More than you want to hear about. But I have to go. If it's not too embarrassing, give him a hug for me, okay?"_

"Maybe I'll just tell him."

_"That'll work. Bye, Dougie."_

"Bye, Mom." Dougie waited for Hardison to hang up. "It's Sterling."

"Nice job," Hardison high fived him and Parker patted him on the arm.

Dougie looked at Ron. "Mom's upset."

Ron gave him a one armed hug. "She'll get over it. Eventually. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad."

"It's nice to have confirmation, though I think we'd like bit of a warning next time," said Sophie. "Is there any significance to _grandmother_?"

Dougie shrugged and looked at Ron, who shook his head. "I don't think so. Her mother died a long time ago and my mother isn't involved with any of this. And before you ask, we don't have any silver."

Sophie nodded and jotted something down in her notebook. Hardison? Did you get anything?"

The hacker should his head. "There isn't anything to _get_. She used the same phone as last time and I lost the signal around Stratford, Ontario. She hasn't used her credit or bank cards―probably because they're all in her purse over there―or withdrawn any funds from her bank accounts. She's gone off the grid―and the lady knows how."

"Let's ask Nate where she's going," said Parker. "He's the one who knows where the guy's wife is."

"We can't _get_ to Nate, Parker," said Eliot. "Sterling and half the FBI are hoping we'll try."

"Maybe we don't have to," said Sophie, tapping her pen on the table. "If we can't find Jo and we can't find Madeline Wencel . . . we'll find Sterling instead."

"Sophie," said Hardison, in a patient voice. "I can't trace that phone and it looks like he's using a Company credit card for this gig―and I'll tell you right now, I'm not going anywhere near the Interpol databases for his itinerary."

"You don't have to," said Sophie. "The _other_ half of the FBI will do it for us." She smiled. "It's all who you know . . . and who'd like to know you much, much better."

Hardison sat up. "Oh, _hell _no," he said. "No, no, no, no, no."

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "You really think she can pull that off?"

"I think she's the only one who can."

"What? Who?" Parker stared back at everyone. "Is there something on my nose?"

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"Does he have to see her?" asked Hardison.

"Yes," said Sophie, reaching over the screen to fluff Parker's hair. "Remember to wear your pleasant face."

"This is my pleasant face. This isn't pleasant?"

"Not entirely, no. Just keep that worried frown and try to look relieved to see him. No, Parker, that's the wrong sort of relieved. Try for glad."

Eliot rolled his eyes. It was a good thing love was blind. Or in this case, completely clueless.

"Glad to see him―what's wrong with e-mail? Or a nice phone call? I'll just set up a nice, untraceable phone call for you, all right?"

"Calm down Hardison," said Eliot. He moved around the table so he could see Hardison's screen and Parker's face. "This ain't a date."

"Sophie thinks it is," Hardison grumbled. "Fine. Call's connecting . . . three . . . two . . ." He pointed at Parker.

A fresh-faced man in a suit and tie filled Hardison's screen, his coffee cup lowering as he swallowed. "_Agent McSweeten. How can I―" _He did a double take, inhaled, and stared coughing. "_Agent Hagan_?" he croaked.

Sophie gestured to Parker, who jolted out of her frozen smile. "Yeah. Hi. I need to ask you a favor."

"_Really_?" He straightened up, set his cup down, and caught it as it tipped, sending coffee splashing on his shirt.

Hardison smiled.

"_Uh, name it_," said McSweeten, wiping his tie.

"I'm undercover, working on the Wen―" she shook her head in time with Sophie's frantic motions before catching on. "Oh! I mean, never mind, I can't tell you. Because it's a secret. But there's an Interpol officer who's working on the same case, and he could ruin things for me if he shows up because he's an evil jerkwad."

Hardison rolled his eyes and held up a card: _Don't Improvise!_ He held up another one.

"I mean, I-need-to-know-where-that-officer-is-right-now."

"_Are you in danger?"_

"Not yet," she said. "I mean, could-you-find-out-for-me?"

Sophie glared at Hardison and took away his card.

"Sure. Um, Agent Thomas is really good at this stuff. Why isn't he—"

Parker blinked. "He can't. I mean, I can't ask him. We . . . you know, we're kind of seeing other partners right now." She glared off screen. "He's kind of _bossy_."

Hardison's jaw dropped.

"_Yeah, I noticed that. Taggart can be the same way."_

"Uh-huh. And if Thomas thought I couldn't do this _on my own_, he'd never let me forget it."

"_Right. It's not fair―you're great. I mean, you're a great agent_." He cleared his throat. "_Who are you looking for?"_

"James Sterling."

McSweeten's eyes went wide. "_Wow! You must be working an important case. That guy's got an impressive record_."

"Hah!" said Parker. "I mean, I guess so. But that's why I want to win this one for the, uh, home team, you know?" Her gaze flicked a question to Eliot.

He nodded and she relaxed.

McSweeten grinned. "_Yes, ma'am. You have a secure line I can call_?"

Hardison took his card back and flipped it over. Parker read off the number.

"_Great. I'll call back as soon as I can."_

"Thanks."

"_Thank me later . . . over dinner?"_

"Sure. Oops, gotta go!"

"_Good―_"

Hardison stabbed the keyboard and cut him off. "No, you didn't just―do you know what you did? Do you? Tell her―tell her what she just did."

"She just did a very good job," said Sophie.

Parker beamed.

"A good _job?_ She just accepted a date with the F-B-I!"

"He's sweet," said Parker.

"Sweet? He's sweet and _I'm _bossy? Is that it?" And what's this about seeing other partners? You can't break up Hagan and Thomson―they're a dream team!"

Eliot's phone vibrated. The incoming number was blocked, but they'd reached him through a dummy number he hadn't seen in years. He stepped into the kitchen and closed the swinging door, cutting Hardison off mid-rant.

"Yeah?"

"Eliot Spencer," said a voice too sure of itself to make it a question.

"Yeah."

"I'm Robert Wencel. I've heard good things about your work from some very bad people."

Eliot went on alert. "I could say the same, Mr. Wencel."

"Good, good." The voice was amused. "I heard you experienced a recent shake-up in your organization. Are you still in Boston?"

"How did you get this number?"

"Money. Are you free to meet me for a business proposition?"

"What kind?"

"Lucrative."

"Where?"

"The Starbucks on Charles Street. You pick the time."

"Two hours."

"Fine."

Eliot shoved his phone in his pocket and went back into the living room. "Sophie, you have a safehouse in town?"

"A few. Why?"

"Pick one―no, don't tell me. Pack everyone up―Parker, help Dougie and Ron. Tell Ron to bring Jo's files, her purse, and any pictures you have of any of us."

Parker disappeared down the hall.

Hardison began breaking down his equipment. "What's going on?"

Eliot grimaced. "Robert Wencel just offered me a job interview."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Eliot parked his truck a few blocks away from the Starbucks and walked.

"_I still think I should have gone with you,_" said Hardison. "_You know, as back up._"

"_Me, too,_" said Parker.

"No," said Eliot. "Better I go in alone until I find out what they want. You all moved out?"

"_We're traveling now,"_ said Sophie. "_Are you sure you don't want to know where?"_

"Not yet. Make sure you're not followed."

"_Oi, teach your grandmother to suck eggs_," she said, making him smile. "_And be careful, will you? Holler if you need us._"

Eliot turned off his earbud.

A big man with the shoes and blank face of an ex-military bulletcatcher stepped up to him before he reached the coffe shop. "You Spencer?"

Eliot nodded.

"You carying?"

"No."

The man pulled out something that looked like a smartphone and pointed it at him. It beeped twice.

"I'm not wired."

"I know." The man opened the door for him.

Robert Wencel, a dark haired, handsome man in an expensive suit, was seated at a table in the back corner with another man in a cheaper suit. A bodyguard, the twin of the guy outside, stood to one side, his primary focus on Eliot.

Wencel looked up from his iPad as Eliot approached. "Mr. Spencer?"

"Mr. Wencel?"

"Guilty." Wencel signed something on the iPad with a stylus and tapped it twice. "Today, Jeremy." The other man murmured something and left without a glance at Eliot.

"Have a seat, Mr. Spencer," said Wencel, pushing aside the iPad. "I hear you're the best in the business."

Eliot pulled out the seat and moved it around so he could keep an eye on Wencel, the bodyguard, and the room. "Depends on the business."

"I'm primarily interested in your reputation as a retrieval specialist. You've made a lot of bad-ass enemies, which means you're good." A smile corssed his face. " And you're still alive, which means you're very good."

"If you say so."

"I do." His expression changed. " I want you to find my wife."

"I don't retrieve people."

"I know." The smile widened. "I know all about you, Spencer."

Eliot sincerely hoped not. "Then you know I don't mess with domestic situations. You need a private detective."

"I have ten," said Wencel, leaning forward. "I need you."

"Why?"

"You've been working with Nathan Ford."

Eliot shrugged. "Off and on. Not for a while now, and never again."

"Doesn't matter. You know how he thinks. And he's the one who helped her leave and helped her hide."

Eliot checked the position of Wencel's goon and looked toward the door. He could see the other goon through the window.

"Relax," said Wencel. "I know you weren't involved―you were in Oklahoma.." He let that sink in. "Beautiful country. You have any leftover loyalty to Ford?"

Eliot curled his lip and let two months of frustration and anger wash over him. "To a star witness?"

Wencel studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. Ford gave Madeline the contents of a safety deposit box. It had her family's jewelryin it, but there were papers in there, too. Important papers―_incriminating_, one could say.

"And now, Ford's sequestered so tightly my people can't reach him. I won't be able to get to him until well after the trial―and I can't wait that long.

"Got any leads?"

"I did. The do-gooder who called in Ford."

"Yeah? What did he say?"

"She. She got away―rescued by the Interpol officer who's also on my back. Ballsy little guy―James Sterling. I'm sure you've heard of him."

"Yeah. I've heard of him."

"I'm told he's found out about the documents. And he's got Ford to tell him where Madeline is."

"Why don't you have Sterling put down? From what I hear, he doesn't share info with others. End him, the whole mess goes away."

"Don't think I haven't thought of that. It would fix things, at least temporarily. You know anyone who might accept the contract?"

It occured to Eliot that taking this man down would fix a lot of things, permanently. But this wasn't the time or the place. "I might do it, for the right price."

Wencel named a figure. "That right enough?"

Eliot nodded. " I'll throw in the do-gooder for another twenty percent."

"I heard you give women and children a pass."

"There's a recesssion on."

Wencel chuckled. "I like how you think, Spencer. Tell you what: take care of Madeline, too, and I'll double your fee." His grin widened. "I'll want pictures, of course. As proof," he added.

Eliot forced himself to smile.

Five minutes later, he hit the street, pretending the outdoor guard wasn't following him at a discreet distance. He scratched his ear. "Hardison."

_"Eliot._" For once the hacker was serious. "_You want our location now?_"

"No. Looks like I'll be working solo for a while."

"_Eliot_," said Sophie. "_Don't_."

"Don't worry, Soph," he said, walking back to his car. "We're a team. We stay a team. But we can't look like one."

"_It's your call,_" she said, after a pause. "_We trust you."_

"Thanks," he said, meaning it. "Any idea where Sterling's taking Jo?"

"_Yeah," _said Hardison. "_McSweetiepie just called. Eliot, man, you're not gonna believe this."_

Eliot listened as he got into the truck. He closed his eyes "Jo's gonna kill Nate."

"_I know, right? _

Eliot started the ignition. "Better and better," he growled, as he pulled away, fully aware of the gray Crown Vic trailing him up Charles Street.

* * *

**I hope this makes up for the late update**―**Say you forgive me?**


	11. Informants—Jo

Jo stared out the window of the hotel suite, which could have been the same one she'd stayed in the last time she'd been here. Franklinsburg didn't provide much of a choice.

She's sworn she'd never set foot in this town again—but she didn't have much of a choice, either.

"Are you all right, Ms. Schulte?"

She didn't bother to look at him. "Not especially, Mr. Sterling." The call home hadn't helped—Dougie was too smart for Jo's own good. She hoped the team would understand why she'd warned them off; she still wasn't sure herself whether she'd been rescued by Sterling, or intercepted.

Either way, she was stuck now. Stuck _here_.

"The baby?"

"The memories." Jo knew she shouldn't have said that. But she was tired and what with the nausea and the hormones, worrying that the team would come after her and hoping that they _would_ . . .she just couldn't bring herself to care.

But he didn't pounce in the direction she'd expected. "Nice view," he said, moving to her side. "You grew up here?"

"You don't know?" She looked at him, the well dressed man looking down on the picturesque town, the leaves just starting to turn. His hands were in his pockets and his usual knowing smirk appeared to be absent.

He shrugged. "I know a few dry facts. Birth, marriage, the adoption of your son. . . what I don't know is how you went from here to training with Eliot Spencer and . . . working . . . with victims of domestic violence."

That was Hardison's doing, Jo knew. He'd erased as much of her digital past as he could without raising questions, and she was pretty sure he was still running keywords searches to make sure nothing came back to bite her. She wasn't sure what she'd done to earn a spot on his weekly to-do list, but she'd never been more grateful.

"I was born and raised here," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I moved to the big city and worked at _The Gym_ for a while—that's how I met Ron. I knew some kickboxing and wanted to learn more. Eliot took me on as a student. I survived the first couple lessons and he introduced me to Mike."

"Mike?"

"Mike Tagiter. He's a mixed martial arts champ for—"

"I know who he is. Impressive."

She shrugged. "He needed a sparring dummy." She smiled at the memory. "I survived that, too, and met his wife, who works at the local shelters. She gave me a job."

Jo wanted to laugh at how _normal _the bare bones of her life were. She hadn't left out all that much—her hellish first marriage, the death of her firstborn son, a kidnapping or two . . . and her former in-laws. Who lived about three miles away.

The urge to laugh died in her throat.

"You must be good," he was saying, "to work with Eliot Spencer and Mike Tagiter."

"Hmm? On good days, I can hold my own. Or I could." She patted her stomach. "But it's worth the trade. What about you? What made you want to join Interpol?"

He lifted his shoulders again. "It just happened, really. I was after a Russian art piece—"

"The Faberge Egg? I saw it on TV," she added, at his sharp glance. It wasn't a lie; Hardison had played the newscast for her to explain why jet lag wasn't the only reason the team was so grouchy after returning from that job.

Sterling nodded. "Yes. The Egg. I ended up with it in the trunk of the thief's getaway car just as he was stopped and the media showed up. I was given full credit, offered the job, and, well. . . it seemed a good career move at the time."

Another simple story. Except she _knew _most of his was sanitized B.S. "You were an insurance agent?"

"Mmm? Yes. IYS. I worked with Nathan Ford, Actually. We were . . . "

"Frenemies?"

His lips twitched. "Something like that."

"Must have been tough to arrest him."

He started to say something, but seemed to catch himself. "You disapprove?"

She shrugged. "He helped me and Madeline Wencel when no one else could, or would. I hear he's helped a lot of people."

There was a pause. "I suppose that depends on who you ask."

"I suppose it usually does. Were you assigned to the Egg case, or did you choose it?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. My son wants to go to Russia someday." Especially after Parker had brought back an overhead photograph of the upper floor restrooms of the Kremlin, complete with a startled government official clutching his copy of _Pravda_. Ron and Jo had made Dougie promise he wouldn't ask her to take him until he was of legal age.

"One of my informants told me that a . . . former friend was in trouble over the theft, so I stepped in."

"Mr. Ford?" asked Jo, knowing full well it hadn't been.

"No, his—ah, no." He cleared his throat, the first sign of discomfort he'd shown so far. "It's been a busy day for you, Ms. Schulte. Why don't you get some rest? Ms. Wencel can wait until tomorrow."

"The hell," she said. "I want to go _home_. Grab your keys."

"Where are we going?"

"To see _my _informant."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

_Dermott's Gym_ was one of the few places in Franklinsburg that held good memories for Jo.

She took a deep breath of the same mix of honest sweat, mat cleaner, leather, and well-worn gym shoes that had comforted her since she was a small child trying to understand why her mother wouldn't be coming home from the hospital. It wasn't home anymore, but it was still a safe place.

Jo looked around and spotted a short, burly man watching a sparring match in the near ring. He jabbed the air with his cigar. "Tyler, keep your left _up_ and _keep _it up! I'm starting to think you _like _getting your bell rung. Holy Toledo, kid—"

Jo tapped him on the shoulder.

He brushed it off, and she tapped him on the other side.

He whirled around, mustache bristling, ready to bawl her out. He did a double take. "Jojo?"

"Hey, Marty. I like what you haven't done with the place."

He beamed. "Hey, guys! It's Jojo!" He gave her a bear hug as greetings were shouted from the trainers and old-timers around the room. "What are you doing here? You ain't in trouble?"

She hugged him back, smelling Old Spice and cold tobacco. "Just making a quick visit."

He let her go and squinted at Sterling, who was looking around with great interest. "So who's this? You trade in the big guy on a spiffier model?"

"Ron's at home—he's got a gym to run."

"And that's no picnic, is it?" he said, sticking his cigar back in his mouth.

She grinned. "Worst job you'll ever love. This is my cousin James , from Ireland. He wanted to see Dad's old place. James, this is Marty Pacelli—he's almost as good a trainer as Dad."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Marty shifted his unlit cigar to his left and shook hands. "Glad to meetcha."

"Same here," said Sterling, with a strong Irish lilt. "Nice place."

"Just like Patrick kept it—just in case Jojo decides to buy it back, someday. You fight?"

Sterling offered a pleasant smile. "Not professionally."

Marty eyed him and turned back to Jo. "Did you bring Dougie with you? I haven't seen him since, what has it been? Five years?"

"He's at home, struggling with his algebra homework." She patted her stomach, something she was doing more and more often. "Brought this one instead."

Marty grinned so big he almost lost his cigar. "Did you! Hey, boys! Jojo's gonna have a baby! "

Jo felt her face heat as the room rang with congratulations and wolf whistles that Marty stopped with a look. "That's great news, honey. Except I was hoping you'd step in the ring and show Tyler here how to block a right." He pointed to the gangly young man in full gear who looked grateful for five minutes rest.

"Easy," she told the kid. "Don't use your face."

Even Tyler laughed.

"That's my girl." Marty offered his arm and they walked together back to the office, leaving Sterling to trail behind. "So what do you know that I should know?"

"I gave you mine—what do you have?"

"Let's see . . . got a few good fighters, or will once they stop trying to skate by on talent and buckle down. But I'll get 'em there."

"Of course you will. You want Mike to come down and give a few pointers?" She nodded to one of the many framed, autographed photos of fighters on the wall—the large one with the grinning, blond guy lofting a huge gold belt. The inscription said, _Hey, Marty—I think I'll keep my day job, thanks!_

Marty snorted. "I don't hold with all that fancy stuff. "

"That fancy stuff can come in useful," she said. "Believe me."

"Eh, you knew the basics already," said Marty. "And you don't use it to show off. Hey, didja hear what happened to Merv Vintner's son, the big shot Harvard accountant?"

"Nope," she said. "What?"

He told her all the gory details, at length. "Ain't that something? Now he's gone off with his tail between his legs, looking for work. I'll tell you, things aren't looking good around here."

"People are moving away?" she asked, in preparation for asking if anyone new had moved into town. Most of the regulars at _Dermott's _had construction jobs or worked at the gas or electric companies and what his fighters knew, Marty knew.

"Some. Most of us are tightening our belts around here—even the haves are feeling it. When people like the Martens are downsizing, you know you're in a recession."

"The Martens?" Jo tried to keep her voice calm, but Sterling turned away from his examination of Marty's wall of fame to watch her.

"You didn't hear?"

She shook her head. She'd kept in contact with Marty—birthday cards, Christmas cards, the occasional phone call—but she'd never asked about the Martens. She hadn't wanted to know.

"They foreclosed on the big house last year and moved into your old place."

For a moment, Jo had a vision of her formidable ex-mother-in-law dumpster diving behind the Chinese restaurant back in Boston, still wearing her signature string of pearls. She shook her head. "You're kidding," she said. "The Locust Street house? I thought they sold it when I . . . left."

"You mean when they threw you out," he growled. "I'll tell you, the only decent thing those people ever did was to give you that kid."

Jo could _feel _Sterling looking at her. She cleared her throat. "So, any new faces in town?"

"One or two. I was about to say, a lady moved into the Marten House maybe a year ago. Classy lady—from Boston, I think. Don't suppose you know her?" He chuckled.

She forced a grin. "What's her name?"

Marty frowned. "Bill might know. He worked on the furnace system—they'd let it run down something terrible." He got up and walked to the door. "Hey! Bill! What's the name of that lady up at the Marten place?"

There was a muffled shout.

"Yeah, Marietta Ackerman. Likes her privacy. Probably why she moved up there. That and the elevator."

"The elevator?"

"Sure. She walks with a cane, now, but she was in a wheelchair when she moved in—some kind of accident. Her leg was in a cast for a long time."

"That's too bad," said Jo. "She's all alone in that big house?"

Marty shrugged. "Couldn't tell you that."

"Really? I thought you knew everything in this town?"

"Not hardly, kiddo. Sorry if we bored you," he said, turning to include Sterling.

"Oh, not at all," said Sterling. His eyes gleamed. "The meeting of old friends is always interesting. But we should be getting back to the hotel. Jo needs her rest."

Marty jumped up before Jo could protest. "I hate to say it, but he's right. You look dead on your feet."

Jo opened her mouth to protest and yawned instead. "Guess I can't argue," she said, getting to her feet. "Marty, it's really good to see you."

"Don't be such a stranger," he said, escorting her to the front entrance. "And bring the kid with you next time."

She smiled weakly. "Right," she said, not meaning it.

"Hey, Jojo." Marty's voice was serious. "I'm real glad about the new baby. It kinda makes it right, you know? Not a replacement, I don't mean that, but you've been through some hard stuff. I'm glad it's all behind you. Be happy, honey."

"Thanks, Marty."

"Sure, sure." He turned and clapped a hand on Sterling's shoulder. "Glad to know our Jojo's got some family left. You take care of her. She's one of a kind."

"I'll do my best," said Sterling, a trace of sardonic humor in his voice.

"Good man. Hey, Jojo, you need us, you call, _capiche_?"

"I will, thanks." She bussed his cheek and left.

Sterling kept pace. Jo kept expecting him to ask questions, say something, _anything_, but he only unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat.

He produced his phone, hit a number and identified himself with a string of numbers. "I need the number of Marietta Ackerman. Address is . . . " He raised an eyebrow and Jo gave it to him. He repeated it and covered the bottom part of the phone. "Are you hungry?"

She nodded. It wasn't true, but she knew she had to eat something.

"The hotel restaurant? Or—yes," he said into the phone. "Got it." He ended the call and began thumbing the keypad. "Do you have a favorite restaurant around here?" he asked, as he finished.

"Not anymore. Anything's fine."

His eyebrow quirked, but he handed her the phone. "Call Ms. Ackerman, if you would—her number is on the screen. Put it on speaker, please." He started the ignition, turned on the headlights, and pulled out into the evening traffic.

The phone rang three times. "_Hello_?"

The cultured voice wasn't as hesitant as Jo remembered. "This is Jo Schulte. I'm sorry to be calling so late, but I have a message for Marietta Ackerman from Nathan Ford. Is this Ms. Ackerman?"

Silence. Then, "_Who is this again_?"

"Jo Schulte." Her eyes shifted to Sterling. "Pumpkinseed, Madeline."

There was a long pause. "_Geranium, Jo. How did you get this number? It's unlisted."_

"It's a long story. Can we meet somewhere and talk? It's important, or I never would have—"

Madeline gasped. "_Oh, my God, he's found me. Robert's found me_."

"No, but he's looking."

"_Oh, my God. What do I do now?"_

"Look, I think you're safe for now, but you might have something that could stop him for good. That's what I'm—"

"_I won't testify_."

"I don't think you'll have to. Mr. Ford helped you get some things out of a safety deposit box—did you take any files with you, too?"

"_I —I didn't notice." _

Sterling gave a soft snort.

Jo agreed— Madeline was as bad a liar as she was. "Could you check, please? Your husband is after whatever is in them."

"_How did you get this number again_?"

Jo looked at Sterling who nodded. "Interpol."

"_Interpol_?" Madeline's voice cracked on the word.

So much for the comfort of authority. "Could I please come talk to you? I promise you I'll come alone."

"_No_." The phone went dead.

Jo tried again. "I think she unplugged it."

Sterling glanced at her. "That went well. I'm so glad you didn't upset her."

"Shut up." She tossed the phone into the cupholder and rubbed her eyes. "I think I'll take you up on that early evening, Mr. Sterling. Maybe room service?"

He nodded and kept driving. She closed her eyes, thought her mind kept picking at Madeline's reactions. She was scared—and who wouldn't be? But something was off somewhere . . .

It might have been ten minutes before it hit her. She opened her eyes to a fully darkened car, headlights shining on the road ahead. "Wait. I didn't upset her—you did."

Sterling remained silent, his profile in shadow.

"Why was she more frightened of _Interpol_ than she was of her husband?"

For a minute, she didn't think he was going to answer her. Before she could repeat the question, he spoke, his voice devoid of any humor. "Because she's read those files and she knows fully well what they mean."

"Well?" Jo made an impatient gesture. "What _do _they mean?"

He turned to look at her, the lights of a passing car illuminating his grim expression. "That Robert Wencel is very well connected indeed . . . and he may be the _least _of our worries."

* * *

**Gotta give Eliot something to fight . . . please review!**


	12. Tangles—Eliot

**Thank you for all your comments and alerts! I never expected to reach 100+ comments with this one, and I really appreciate the support. **

* * *

Ten minutes after he'd checked in, Eliot left the no-tell motel on the outskirts of town and drove into Franklinsburg. The changing leaves and the river made it a pretty place, even at dusk, but he knew Jo wouldn't see it that way.

One more thing to hold against Nate. For an honest man—or whatever the hell he was now—he sure was racking them up.

He pulled into a little restaurant he'd found the last time he'd been here—nothing much to look at, but the food had been full of fresh veggies and herbs. And it wasn't Sterling's type of place.

The early dinner rush was ending, so Eliot was able to ask the hostess for a back corner table near the emergency exit. The Crown Vic had followed him all the way, gliding past the motel like a shark when he'd turned off the road, and he assumed he'd been tailed here, too.

Either Wencel wasn't taking any chances, or someone else was.

Eliot accepted a menu and gave the waitress a wink, more out of habit than anything. He wasn't going to muddy the waters on this one —Jo might be safe for now, but there were more dangers around here than Wencel.

Case in point . . . he could feel someone leaving eyeprints on him. He scanned the room over the top of the menu, expecting to see a couple standard thugs with a set of keys to a Crown Vic.

Instead, he met the reptilian glare of a well-dressed blond woman who was starting to look her age. Mrs. Marten, Jo's former mother -in-law. At her side was her hypochondriac of a husband, who looked now as if he might finally need the wheelchair he'd been using for years.

He was surprised—this wasn't their kind of place. But, then, country clubs preferred members who could afford their dues, and he and Parker had done their best to make sure the Martens couldn't.

Without looking away from him, Mrs. Marten said something to the third person at the table. The younger woman turned her head, and he raised his menu and let his hair fall into his face. He didn't recognize her, but he knew she was some kind of law enforcement—the way she held herself was distinctive, as was the holster under her jacket.

Good-looking woman, too. He'd always been a sucker for redheads. Blondes, too. And brunettes, if he was being honest.

The waitress came back. "May I take your order?"

"I'll have the special." Might as well stay and eat. If the Redheaded Officer wanted to talk to him, he'd make it easy for her. And then he'd tell her a thing or two about the Martens.

As he waited, he studied the Martens—Mrs. Marten was talking non-stop about something that was making her viciously self-righteous. That could be a number of things, he knew, but it would be surprising if she wasn't telling the Redhead all about her ungrateful bitch of a former daughter-in-law.

His food arrived about the time as the Martens' more elaborate meal. Eliot ate with thoughtful efficiency, noticing that the chef hadn't lost her touch with the basil. He finished, paid cash, and sauntered out, not paying any overt attention to the other table.

But his peripheral vision caught the Redhead taking out her phone.

Halfway to his truck, Eliot heard footsteps behind him—he slowed, they slowed. There was an alley up ahead to the left, so he put on some speed and took it, jogging between the buildings until it ended in an access lane behind the restaurant. If he went to the right, he could circle back and get to his truck before they caught up to him.

He turned and waited.

The two men emerged from the alley. The tall one wasn't carrying anything but bulk and grace. The shorter, skinnier one was packing.

"David Spencer?" the larger one said.

Eliot's eyes narrowed. "Who wants to know?"

"We do," said the other one.

"Why?"

"Come with us and we'll tell you."

Eliot smiled. "Make me."

The two men weren't partners, or hadn't been for long, because the little one pulled his gun and started to say something just as the big one launched into an attack that had more than a little jujitsu in it.

Eliot countered the man's moves, circling around to keep the fighter between him and the gunman, who shifted with them, trying to get a shot.

"You're blocking my shot!" shouted the gunman, "Get out of the way!"

The fighter stumbled back from a roundhouse punch. "Screw that," he said, rubbing his jaw. He came at Eliot again, stepping in front of the gunman to do it.

Eliot sprang away at the last moment, leaving the big man flat-footed. He rushed forward, lifting and carrying the fighter back into the gunman, knocking all of them to the hard pavement. The gunman wheezed under the weight of the two men and Eliot took him out of his misery with a quick right.

When he turned to the fighter, he found that the other man was out cold, probably from hitting his head on the concrete. He was breathing, but he wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon.

Eliot got up, inspected his scraped knuckles, and dragged the fighter off the other man, who still held his gun in a slack grip. He took it away, unloaded it, and tossed it into the open dumpster before rifling the man's pockets. He didn't expect much in the way of ID.

He was wrong.

The gunman, Neil Madison stared at him from a smart card—issued by the _National Central Bureau, Interpol United States._

The fighter, Daniel Unger had one, too.

"Crap," he said, just before hearing the beep that meant his earbud was going live.

"_Eliot, you there_?"

"Yeah."

"_Thought you'd want to know—McSweeten just called again," _said Hardison. "_Looks like a group of Interpol agents are in your area_."

"No kidding." Eliot dropped the wallet on the unconscious man. "He say why?"

"_All he said is that Agent Hagan must be working on something really big and if she needs any back up he's _there _for her. . _." Hardison made a sound of disgust. "_Do you_?

"Do I what?"

"_Need any backup_?"

"Not so far." Eliot thought hard. "Give me a minute."

"_You got it."_

Eliot jogged back to the restaurant. Mrs. Marten was spoonfeeding some kind of dessert to her husband, while the Redhead seemed sincerely interested in what the older woman was saying.

"Back so soon?" said the hostess with a smile.

"Could I borrow a pen and something to write on?"

"Sure." She handed him a pen and tore a sheet from her reservation notepad before turning to an arriving couple.

He scribbled a few words, folded the note and caught the attention of the waitress who had served him. "Would you mind delivering this to the young woman at that table over there?"

"Oh," said the waitress, her smile dimming. "I thought you might be giving me our phone number."

"Business before pleasure, darlin'. Thank you."

"Any time." He watched as she handed the note to the Redhead, who unfolded it. Unger and Madison's cards fell to the table.

Her face registered shock for only a split second before smoothing over, but that was all Eliot needed to see. He slipped out the door and back to his truck.

"_Eliot? Can you talk, man?"_

He slammed the door and started the ignition. "Yeah. Everyone there?"

"_Sophie is._ _Ron's upstairs on the phone—some kind of family emergency._ _And Parker's on the roof with Dougie. You need 'em?"_

"I don't know yet."

"_Is something wrong_?" asked Sophie.

"Besides being attacked by two Interpol agents in an alley?"

"_That would be enough for me,"_ said Hardison, after a pause.

"_Are you all right?"_ asked Sophie.

"Yeah. But they definitely saw me and they'll be waking up soon."

_"You losing your touch?"_

"If I'd lost my touch, they wouldn't _be_ waking up, Hardison." Eliot looked in the rear view mirror, but he didn't see a Crown Vic, or anything else that might be following him.

"_Are you sure they're Interpol_?" asked Sophie.

"Sure as I can be. Those smartcards are hard to fake." He reeled off the two names he had. "Have Parker check 'em with her pet FBI agent."

"_He's _not_ her pet—_"

"_I understand why Interpol might send one agent to find Madeline __Wencel and those documents_," said Sophie. "_But why send three?"_

"Four," said Eliot, "counting Sterling."

"_I was counting Sterling_," she said, her voice lifting in a question. "_Who's the fourth_?"

"A woman. She was talking with the Martens in a restaurant."

"_Jo's ex in-laws_?" asked Hardison, his own voice rising. "_You've got to be kidding me—what's next? Snake?"_

"Probably. And Mrs. Marten was nice enough to point me out—she hasn't changed a bit."

"_Cobras don't_," said Sophie. "_I hate to say it, but if four Interpol agents are with Jo, maybe we should back off a bit. Let them handle Wencel."_

"I don't think these guys are working with Sterling," said Eliot. "They didn't identify themselves and they don't know who I am—they called me _David _Spencer. That's how the Martens know me. And if they knew where Jo was, they wouldn't be cozying up to Mrs. Marten."

"_That's a nasty mental picture,"_ said Hardison.

"That's for damn sure." Eliot spun a sudden right turn. No one followed. "So it doesn't look like they're getting any info from Sterling."

"_Well, we know he doesn't play well with others_," said Sophie.

Hardison snorted.

Eliot didn't. "I don't think these people are playing the same game."

_"Okay . . ." _said Sophie. "_If we make the assumption that these other agents went to the Martens to get to Jo to get to Madeline, how did they find out about the Martens_?"

"_The probably traced Jo's first marriage record_," said Hardison, as if he was thinking about something else.

"Hardison! Why didn't you block it?"

"_Hey, we needed it for the adoption, remember? Plus, I don't mess with vital records unless I have to, and I didn't have to. Jo's not hiding from her past_."

"_I hope she hides from this bit_," said Sophie. "_There's no telling what the Martens might try, if they know she's in town."_

"But how'd these guys know to trace Jo's records in the first place?" asked Eliot, pulling into the motel. "How'd they find out she's connected to Madeline? Wencel only found out by sheer dumb luck. Maya doesn't keep records like that. "

"_Yeah_," said Hardison. "_It's not like Wencel would call up Interpol and tell them about his only lead_. . . _Sophie? You okay?"_

"_What if he did?"_ she said, slowly. "_I mean, Wencel has international interests . . . what if he has Interpol agents on his payroll?"_

"_Damn," _said Hardison, softly. "_Not Sterling."_

"_No_," said Sophie. "_The problem with Sterling is that he thinks he's the good guy. You can bargain with him, but you'll never buy him."_

Eliot climbed out of the truck and slammed the door. "If Wencel has Interpol in his pocket, why does he need _me_ to find his wife?" he asked, unlocking the door of his room.

"That's what I'd like to know," said the Redhead, leveling her gun at him from her seat on his bed. "Who _are_ you?"

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"Who do you want me to be, darlin'?" Eliot said, shutting the door behind him and touching his ear as if removing a Bluetooth.

"David Spencer," she said, not cracking a smile. "Sicherheit Security Services." 

"_Hardison_," said Sophie, "_will that alias hold up_?"

"_Sure, unless she asks him for his driver's license."_

Eliot leaned against the door. "Whatever you say. Do you have a name?"

Her clear brown eyes didn't blink. "Where's Josephine Schulte?"

"Who?"

"Where's Madeline Wencel?"

"You're welcome to search the room, Agent . . .?"

"I did. You knocked out two of my colleagues."

"They started it. Or you did, when you sent them after me. "

"Striking a police officer is a crime."

"Your friends kind of bypassed the introductions. You gonna arrest me?"

She shifted, the first sign of nerves. "Do you work for Robert Wencel?"

"Do you?"

"_Answer_ the _question._"

"I'm investigating something that involves him," he said. "You wanna put that thing away before someone gets hurt?"

She lifted the gun. "No."

"Suit yourself. Can I sit down?"

She waved him to the single chair with the gun. "What are you doing in Franklinsburg?"

He turned the chair around and straddled it. "I'm being interrogated by a beautiful woman."

"Are you here for Josephine Schulte?"

"Is that what your dinner companions told you?"

"They told me that you helped her steal their grandson."

He bared his teeth in a grin. "You wanna hear the real story?"

"No. I want to know where Mrs. Schulte is."

"I can't tell you that."

"Can't, or won't?"

He shrugged. "I can tell you that Mrs. Marten's a lying, thieving, murderous bitch who arranged for her son to kill his wife and leave the country with her youngest grandchild."

She blinked. "I don't care what she's done," she said, in a voice that almost held steady. "Only what she knows."

"That's one difference between us." He got up and went to the door, certain he wouldn't get shot. "If you don't mind," he said, opening it, "it's been a long day."

She hesitated, then stood and holstered her gun. "This isn't over."

"You're right. Next time, you might ask for my help instead trying to strong arm me." He let her pass. "Hey," he called after her, "if you see Mrs. Marten, tell her to remember what I promised her five years ago. Tell her I'm a man of my word."

She kept going without a word, leaving behind the faint smell of lilacs.

He shut the door and locked it. "That was interesting."

"_Yo, was she as hot as she sounded?_"

"Pretty much."

"_Never mind that,_" said Sophie. "_Was she as unsure as she sounded?"_

"That, too." Eliot sat on the bed and smelled lilacs. "I don't think she works in the field much. I don't think any of the three have worked together before."

"_Interesting."_ Eliot could hear Sophie tapping her pen. 

"_It's confusing is what it is,_" said Hardison_. "How's all this going to help us find Madeline Wencel? The only one who knows exactly where she is, is Nate—and you can't tell me he told the Martens."_

Sophie stopped tapping. _"No . . . but he might have used them. Hardison, are the Martens still living in the mansion?"_

Eliot sat up. "_You've got to be kidding me. Nate wouldn't—"_

_"Yes, he would_," said Sophie. "_It's the last place anyone would think to look—especially Jo. Nate probably thought he was protecting her from Wencel."_

_"He's gotta stop doing that,"_ said Hardison. "_The mansion went into foreclosure about a year ago and the Martens moved into Jo's old house, which is about the creepiest thing I've ever heard. It's like moving into Amityville."_

Eliot couldn't argue. "Who lives there now?"

"_Lady named Marietta Ackerman_. _You gonna pay her a visit?"_

"I've got too many people following me around. What we need—"

"_Is a thief," _finished Sophie. "_Parker will be there in the morning. Or maybe the all of us should—"_

"No," said Eliot. "Only Parker. There's no way the rest of you are taking the risk."

"_You do know who you sound like, right?"_

"Damn it, Hardison, we have to lay low right now—you know that."

"_With all due respect, Eliot," _Sophie bit off, "t_hat's not your decision."_

"The hell it's not," said Eliot, cutting off the conversation with a jab to his earbud. He picked up his kit and stomped into the bathroom, not knowing if he was angrier at Hardison for making that last comment . . .

. . . or for being right.

* * *

** Look! Action! Finally! **


	13. Fed Up—Jo

**Thanks once more for your patience and wonderful comments!**

* * *

Jo finished her third taco, looked at the pile of crumpled wrappers and decided she'd put it off long enough.

She took a deep breath, pinched her nose, and drank down her pint bottle of milk. "Ugh," she said, when she could. She reached for her bottle of water.

"If you don't like it," said Sterling, wiping his hands on a napkin, "why drink it?"

"It's for the baby," she said, shuddering. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Her first pregnancy had been a time of intense anxiety and sick hope—but this time, things would be different. This baby would never have to be kept as quiet and invisible as possible for fear of Daddy's wrath. _This_ baby would be loud and messy and loved.

That was worth another six months of cow juice.

"So," she said, leaning back. "Interpol is corrupt."

"Not all of it," he said drily. "Only a few agents are suspected."

Jo nodded. "I'll assume you aren't one of those happy few."

He lifted an eyebrow."Why the vote of confidence?"

"If you worked for Wencel, you wouldn't have given me a ride in the first place."

He smiled. "Unless Wencel was blackmailing me and I wanted to destroy the evidence."

Jo smiled back. "If that was true, you'd be ransacking the Mar—I mean, Madeline's house instead of stuffing a pregnant lady with cheap Mexican food."

"There's that. Or maybe I want a reliable witness who will testify that I'm not involved."

"Then you just shot yourself in the foot," she said, through a yawn. She studied him a moment. "But I don't think so. I can see someone blackmailing you, maybe . . . but you can't be bought. Not by someone like Wencel. And not with money."

"Thank you . . . I think." He lifted his mug of tea. "That's a deep analysis for such a short acquaintance."

She flapped a hand as another yawn overtook her. "S'not hard," she said. "You think you're the good guy."

He gave her an unreadable look over his mug. "And I'm not?"

"You may be a good guy," she said, "manipulation and sense of superiority aside. But you're not _the_ good guy."

His eyes glinted. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Nothing you want to hear." And nothing, on second thought, that she really wanted to say out loud. This man was the enemy of her friends. Just because he was earning a tiny amount of her respect didn't mean he wasn't waiting for her to trip up. And the day was catching up to her.

"Are the agents being blackmailed or paid?" she asked, trying to change to subject.

"Does it matter which?" His voice became clipped. "They still betrayed a trust."

Jo wondered if she'd just pushed one of his buttons—maybe the one labeled _Nathan Ford._

She shrugged. "If it's blackmail, the agents might be less likely to hurt Madeline to get to the file. Plus, it's another charge against Wencel."

"Mmmm." He gave her one of his assessing looks. "We don't know. The file supposedly contains the particulars. We'll try Mrs. Wencel again tomorrow."

"We'll _succeed_ tomorrow," she said. "This has been . . . interesting . . . but I've got to get home. I miss my family, I'm running out of clothes, and I just remembered I don't even have my pre-natal vitamins with me."

He turned in his seat and reached into his inner jacket pocket. "Here," he said, tossing her a flat box.

She stared at the familiar label of the happy woman holding a happy baby. "How did you get these?"

"I called your doctor, the doctor called the pharmacy and the pharmacy delivered them here."

She remembered him stopped at the lobby desk, but had been too hungry to do more than wait at the elevator with the food. "Why would you go to all that trouble?"

He lifted his eyebrows. "Out of the goodness of my heart?"

"Really? And here I was told you don't have much of either." She realized what she'd said and jumped up to gather the trash. When was she going to learn to think before speaking, instead of the other way around?

He narrowed his eyes. "You've been listening to the wrong people."

Jo sighed and decided to suck it up. "I don't think so. They might not like_ you_ much, but that doesn't make them the bad guys." She shoved the wrappers and napkins into the take-out bags and took everything to the trash can. She was pretty sure the smell, while pleasantly spicy now, would turn her green in the morning, so she opened the door and set the can out in the corridor.

The elevator was close and the stairs were only a little farther down the hall. If she wanted, she could run—If she could make her way to _Dermott's Place_, she'd have twenty-plus bodyguards. And a phone. The team could be here by morning—or well away from anything Sterling could do to them.

She thought about the fear in Madeline's voice, stepped back inside, and turned the deadbolt.

"Is Eliot Spencer a _good guy_?"

She turned. Sterling stood not two yards away, and it occurred to her that he'd expected her to take off. Or maybe she'd just pushed another button. "He's my friend. He taught me to stand up for myself and fight."

"Would it surprise you to know he's a criminal? A vicious, mercenary thug?"

Jo schooled her expression. She knew more about Spencer than this man ever would—and understood more than he ever could. "Everyone's got a past, Mr. Sterling. Even you. It's the present that's important."

He didn't actually roll his eyes, but it looked like he wanted to. "Do you really believe that?"

"Oh, yes. Whatever Eliot Spencer's done, he was there for me when I needed him. He still is. Mr. Ford, too. They've helped a lot of people like me. And Madeline," she added.

"They break the law."

"And you look the other way when it benefits _you_—you've _used them_ when it benefits you. How does that make you better than them?"

He didn't answer. She didn't expect him to.

"_People like you_," he said, a cold sneer in his voice. "Were you married to an international criminal, Ms. Schulte? Is that why you're so comfortable with them?"

"I was married to a monster, Mr. Sterling. Dig deeper if you're curious. My life's an open book." Not an e-book, thanks to Hardison—but the answers were out there, if he wanted them.

"I just might do that."

She honestly didn't give a damn if he did. She was tired and homesick and sick of all the games. "Be my guest. Now,if you'll excuse me—"

"One more question, just out of curiosity," he said. "Whose is it?"

"What?"

"Well," he drawled in his gravelly accent. "You're so passionate in your defense, you'll forgive me for wondering if your baby is a Spencer instead of a Schulte."

Her reaction was immediate, and she didn't pull her punch.

He worked his jaw. "I'll take that as a no," he mumbled, looking up at her.

"Good choice," she said, stepping over him on the way to her bedroom. "Good-night, Mr. Sterling."

He started to say something, but she cut him off with the door and went the hell to bed.

* * *

**That felt . . . good. **


	14. Change of Plans—Eliot

**More. And a huge thanks to bookworm37 for pointing out a huge gaffe! Hope I fixed it here.**

* * *

Eliot returned from a couple hours of recon—and a hearty breakfast at a little downtown Bistro—to find a blonde woman sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed. He dropped his room key on the low dresser, wondering why he bothered to lock up at all. "You made good time."

She nodded. "Did you know you had a bug up your—"

He glared at her and made a _zip it_ gesture.

"It's okay," she said, pointing to the dresser. "We drowned it."

He picked up the clear plastic, cup full of water and listening device. "Damn. Of course I knew, Parker. It's SOP for these guys."

Her forehead wrinkled. "Then why didn't you stomp it before you talked to us last night?"

"I didn't want them to know I knew." He pulled out the bug and shook the water from it. "That's why I didn't say anything important once I was in the room." He dried the bug on the tail of his shirt and tossed it to her. "Put it back." With a little luck, Agent Redhead would think it died of natural causes and replace it in the same spot.

She got up and stomped across the room. "You said my _name_," she said, shoving the device back into its hiding place. "And Hardison's. He said so."

"He also said the earbuds are bug-proof. For all they know you're just another bullet catcher for Sicherheit."

"How'd you guess?" She produced her ID badge. "I'm Alice Parker." She grabbed a paper bag from the bed and handed it to him. "Your David Spencer ID. Plus a driver's license and some other stuff. Sophie packed you a suitcase, too."

"Good. That'll—" he stopped. "You said _we._ Who's _we?_"

Parker pointed to the bathroom. "Long drive," she said.

After a toilet flush and some running water, Dougie emerged. "Parker, what time did—?" He saw Eliot and his expression went both wary and stubborn. "Hey, Spencer."

Eliot swore long and loud. To his credit, the kid took it without flinching.

"I made her bring me," he said.

"Right. I'll bet you had to hold your breath 'til you turned blue."

"No," said Parker. "He asked me."

"He _asked_." Eliot dragged an exasperated hand through his hair. "_Parker_—"

"He knows the house better than I do," she said. "He knows the rooms and all the hiding places, he knows the blind spots for the cameras . . ."

"Unless they've been adjusted," said Eliot.

"It won't matter," said Dougie, as calm and serious as if he'd been planning break-ins for years. Maybe he had—Parker had her own ideas about basic life skills. "The whole security system was retrofitted and my Grandm—the Martens refused to have holes drilled all over the place. A lot of the camera coverage doesn't overlap."

"Unless it's been redone," said Eliot.

Dougie didn't smirk, but he came close. "Hardison says Mrs. Wencel—I mean, Marietta Ackerman—didn't hire or pay anyone to do that—she doesn't even have any in-house guards on the payroll. And he says the connection you guys set up to the security system should still be good. We just need to run the program."

"_We_ again. Your Dad know you're here?"

"Yeah."

Eliot frowned. "Don't make me repeat the question."

Dougie folded his arms, his face going stubborn. "I left him a note."

Eliot shook his head. "Dougie, you're all he has right now."

"Right. That's why we have to help Mom."

"That's why _we_," he pointed to Parker and himself, "have to help her. You can take a bus back to the safehouse. If Parker needs a consult, she can ask for one long distance."

Damned if the kid didn't step closer. "Spencer, you _know_ what she went through for me."

"_She_ gets to do that—she's your Mom."

_"_And I'm her _kid._ And I'm going to help get her home. With or without you."

Eliot looked at him and exhaled. He was Jo's kid all right. Damn it. "Call your Dad. If he decides to let you live, you can stay. But you're Parker's responsibility—and you keep him off the radar," he told her. "This town is crawling with people who wouldn't mind using him to get to Jo. And God help all of us if _Jo_ finds out he's here."

Parker nodded. "No problem."

"Thanks, Spencer." Dougie moved to the motel phone.

"Don't thank me. Stop." Eliot brought out his cell. "Use that. These guys don't have to bug the phone to listen in. And I don't want the call on the room bill."

"Right." Dougie punched in a number and went into the bathroom.

"Seriously, Parker? You brought a fourteen-year old into this? Seriously?"

Parker gave him one of her blank looks. "He would have come anyway. This way, we know where he is."

"We should know that he's in the safehouse."

She shrugged. "He doesn't stay where he doesn't want to be."

"And who taught him that?"

She lifted her eyebrows. "The Martens."

She was right, but that didn't mean he liked it. "The kid should be chasing girls, not messing with this kind of stuff."

"You find me a girl who can break into a secure room full of cops and then talk her way out again," said Dougie, "and I'll start chasing." He held out the phone. "Dad wants to talk to you."

Eliot took it. "Ron. You want me to duct tape him up and send him back?"

"_I appreciate the offer, but unless he's in the way, it would be better if he stayed."_

"He can't stick with me," said Eliot. "I've got eyes on me."

"_Parker will take care of him,"_ said Ron. "_I never worry when he's with her."_

"You're kidding me."

"_No. When he was younger, she was the only one who understood why he did some of the things he did. And right now, she's the only one who can keep up with him_."

"Your call." Eliot rubbed his face. "Jo's gonna kill all of us."

Ron's chuckle held little humor. "_I'm looking forward to it. Keep me posted, okay?"_

"Will do." Eliot put his phone back in his pocket. He didn't understand Ron's calm, but he wasn't the parent. "Guess you're in, kid. You got an earbud?"

Dougie grinned and pointed to his ear. "Hardison gave it to me. Panic button for junior high."

"All right. You go where we tell you to and _stay_ where we tell you to. Or I'll ship your ass back to your Dad. Got it?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Hmmph. You two need another place to stay—I got Interpol dropping in at all hours."

"Covered," said Parker. "What's our first move?"

"Well," said Eliot, picking up his Sicherheit ID. "I think David Spencer should pay a courtesy call to Marietta Ackerman.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Eliot watched the Marten driveway from down the street. He couldn't be sure that Madeline Wencel was inside, but either way, it was time. "We set?"

"_Think so,"_ said Hardison. "_Everyone where they need to be?"_

"_Ready_," said Parker.

"_Yeah_," said Dougie, with a sigh.

"_Right here,_" said Sophie. "_Are you wearing the tie?"_

"No," said Eliot.

"_Where's Dad?_" said Dougie.

_"Right here,"_ said Ron, sounding out of breath. "_Wouldn't want to miss anything."_

Eliot pulled up close to the gates, rolled down his window, and looked up at the camera pointed at him from the other side. He'd give it ten minutes.

The speaker next to the camera clicked. "Yes?" said a distorted voice.

"I'm David Spencer with Sicherheit Security Services. I'd like to speak to Ms. Ackerman, if she's available. I left a message on her voice mail earlier."

"Gary Corby is our Sicherheit representative."

"Yes, I know. I'm with the corporate office. But I'm in the area for the week and thought I'd take the time to visit our customers. Address any concerns you might have."

"Hold up your ID card."

He unclipped it and held it up to the camera.

"_Higher._"

In his ear, Hardison said, "_There she is. Good Morning. No, I'm afraid Mr. Spencer is out of the office all week. I can give you his voice mail. I'm afraid I can't give out his itinerary . . . Oh, I see. May I have your service number, please? . . . Thank you, Ms. Ackerman. Okay, I can confirm that Mr. Spencer is supposed to be in Eastern Pennsylvania right now. What? No, I understand completely—you can't be too careful. He's about five eight, blue eyes, long brown hair kind of looks like a girl's, but with that kind of that beat-up cowboy look? Plus he squints if he doesn't wear his glasses. Makes him look a little like Robert Duvall."_

"Hardison," said Eliot. "I'm gonna—"

"_I could fax or e-mail you a photo, if you . . . okay, I'm sending it now. No trouble at all, Ms. Ackerman. We appreciate your business. Have a good day, now . . . . Say what you want, man," _said Hardison in his normal voice. "_She bought it."_

"I'm five ten, and I don't look anything like—"

The speaker clicked. 'Come up to the house." The gates squealed open.

"_See?" _said Hardison.

Eliot parked in the circle in front of the main entrance and walked up to the door, straightening his suit jacket and making sure his hair was smoothed back in its low ponytail. He pressed the bell.

Another speaker clicked to life. "Yes?" asked a woman's voice.

"David Spencer to see Ms. Ackerman."

"ID, please. There's a camera to your left.

Eliot held up his ID and his driver's license.

"Is something wrong with the security system?"

_"That's her,"_ said Sophie. "_Madeline Wencel. She's really worried."_

"No, ma'am, not at all," said Eliot, reclipping his badge. "This is just a courtesy call. I understand that the system was installed by the previous owners, and wanted to know if it fit Ms. Ackerman's needs. With her permission, I'd like to quality check the system and ask her if she had any questions or comments. You know," he added, "if she'd prefer to have Gary here, I'd be glad to wait in my car for him."

That seemed to do it. "One moment, please."

It took several minutes, and when the door finally opened, Eliot knew why. The woman standing there had a walking cast on one leg and was leaning on a heavy cane. "Mr. Spencer?" she asked.

"Ms. Ackerman?"

She nodded and let him pass, shutting and locking the door behind him. She also tapped a code into the pad by the door, careful to block his view.

"That's a good idea, resetting the alarm," he said, as she turned to face him again. "Most people don't think to do that."

"_Rats_," said Parker. 

"I always do," said the woman, without smiling. Her washed-out prettiness could have used one, but he couldn't blame her. Sophie was right—she was worried about something. Did she know Robert Wencel was close? Or was it something else?

"Are the alarms and cameras working for you? We recommend in-house security as well for a house this size." He looked around—he recognized a few pieces of the Marten's furniture and a lot of their art collection was still on the walls. He wasn't surprised; all of them were cheap reproductions. He and Parker had made sure of that. He smiled. "A lovely home."

She lifted her shoulders in a ladylike shrug. "Thank you. The control room is this way." She limped away.

"I think she's here alone," Eliot subvocalized.

"_This woman definitely needs help,"_ said Sophie. "_She's trying, but if Eliot had been hired by Robert Wencel, she'd be dead now."_

Eliot knew where the control room was from the last time, but he let her lead him through the back hall to the small room across from the kitchen. He rubbed his hands together. "All right, let's see how the programs are holding up."

He sat down at the main terminal. The chair was adjusted for someone Madeline Wencel's height, and there was a small footstool under the table. He wondered how many hours she spent watching the camera feeds. "Have you reset the passwords, Ms. Ackerman?"

"No," she said, sitting on a nearby stool. "Should I?"

"It's recommended," he said. "I can help you with that, if you want. Or ask Gary."

"_Okay,_" said Hardison. "_Here we go . . ."_ He started giving instructions. Alphabet soup streamed over the screen. "_Looks good,"_ he said.

"Looks good so far," said Eliot.

"_Okay,"_ said Hardison. "_There's gonna be a screen flash or two."_

"_Eliot, find a mistake,_" said Sophie.

"Hold on. That's not to spec." Eliot kept typing what Hardison fed him. The screen flashed. "Whoa. Did you authorize these changes?"

"What?" She almost threw herself off the stool and stumbled into him.

He steadied her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes," her hand was white-knuckled on her cane. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, exactly," he said, facing the screen. "It looks like someone tried to compensate for the lack of overlap in the upstairs cameras. That's not recommended for this system."

"_Hey now," _said Hardison. "_That's pretty good."_

_"See?" _said Dougie.

"What overlap?" she asked.

"The system was retrofitted to the house, and I'm guessing the previous owners didn't want holes drilled all over the walls to run the wires." Eliot held out a hand and half-covered it with the other. "The cameras are supposed to overlap what they see to make a whole picture. But you don't have enough." He moved his hands apart. "So there are blind spots."

"_I'm taking over—don't touch anything," _said Hardison. "_One more flash and we're done."_

Eliot glanced at the screen. "The problem is this fix blurs the image and can ruin the feed." The screen flashed. "There. All gone."

"But what about the blind spots?"

"Well, we can install more cameras or you can hire in-house staff."

"How long would it take to install new cameras?"

"I'll check." Eliot pulled out his phone and brought up his calendar. "For four cameras down here and two inside . . . ." He scrolled. "I'll have to check, but I'm thinking four weeks."

"Four weeks?" She wobbled and he got up and sat her down in the chair, helping her put her foot on the stool.

"I could have a security team assigned here by tomorrow."

"No! No, I prefer not to have anyone else here."

Eliot took the other chair. "Pardon me for asking a personal question, ma'am, but you look like you're under a lot of stress. If that's something we can help you with . . ."

"No," she said, her gaze skittering away from his. "I'm just fine."

After a pause, he sighed. "The customer is always right," he lied, standing up. "I'll have Gary write up that order for you right away. Maybe we can push it through earlier."

"Thank you." She hobbled to the door.

"I can see myself out," he said. "No, I guess I can't—I almost forgot about the alarm." He offered an arm.

She hesitated, then took it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Skiing accident?"

"I fell down some stairs last year," she said in a quiet voice. "They had to rebreak it last month."

Eliot decided that he'd make sure Robert Wencel knew what that felt like.

They reached the door and she disarmed the system. "Thank you," she said.

"Any time," he said. He reached into his pocket and gave her one of the cards Hardison had sent. "If you change your mind, you call me or Gary. I'll be in town for a couple days."

"All right."

He opened the door and walked onto the porch. "Don't forget to reset the alarm," he said over his shoulder.

"I won't." She started to close the door, then made a terrible sound, half _no_, half scream.

Eliot leapt back as a huge fist sliced through the space where his head had been.

The owner of the fist was wearing a knit cap to his eyebrows and a scarf to his nose, but Eliot could see he wasn't the big Interpol agent—Unger. This guy was bigger, and dark hair straggled out from under the cap.

Eliot ducked grabbed an arm, twisted, and flipped. His attacker wheezed a breath, but was up faster than he should have been. He charged again, and his next punch grazed Eliot's chin. Eliot threw a double punch of his own, but the larger man barely moved. His fist slammed into Eliot's stomach, sending him staggering back

Madeline screamed again.

Eliot stayed bent over, his hands on his knees, getting his breath back. He shook back his loosened hair in time to see the thug reach into his pocket and pull out a thick black wand that shot out into a two-foot steel riot baton.

Just great.

Eliot raised himself into a defensive crouch. He shook back his loosened hair and spat to one side. He was going to have to take a hit here, but if he moved quickly enough—

An arm snaked across the thug's neck, stopping him in his tracks. He scrabbled at the arm as he was bent back, his grunts getting quieter as he used up his air. He raised the baton, but a fist smashed into the side of his head and his eyes rolled up. He dropped to the ground.

"Hey, Boss," said Ron, adjusting the obvious earpiece stuck in his left ear. "You okay?"

"Yeah," said Eliot in a quieter voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Told you I wouldn't miss it."

"Ms. Ackerman?" called Eliot. "Are you all right?"

She stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide. "Who is he?"

"I'm Ron Dermott, ma'am," said Ron, taking a few steps toward her. She shrank back and he stopped, tapping the ID badge on his jacket pocket. "I'm from Sicherheit. Mr. Spencer asked me to check the perimeter. I was coming around to the gates when I saw someone jumping the fence. I called the police, but thought I'd better follow him. I'm sorry if I scared you."

She blinked at him. "Not you," she said, pointing. "Him."

"Oh. Boss?"

Eliot finished going through the thug's pockets and straightened up. "Nothing. You call it in?"

"Yeah, before I followed him. The police should be here any minute. Look out!"

The thug rolled over and was on his feet in a flash. He took off running, Ron on his heels.

Eliot went to the porch. "You should wait inside, Ms. Ackerman."

She nodded and he helped her to the living room. She sat on the old leather couch that looked a lot like the one Sophie had made Nate replace right before she'd left. "I'm going to go check in with Ron," he said. "Are you going to be all right?"

She clutched her cane tightly and didn't answer.

He left her there and circled around the house to the back gate. Ron was on one side, the thug on another. He'd taken off his scarf, hat, and wig, revealing a clean-cut blond man.

"Thanks, Denny," Ron was saying, shaking the man's hand.

"No problem. Anything for Jojo—she used to baby sit me when I was a kid. Plus Marty said he'd give me a break on my gym fees. Hey, you have some _serious_ skills," he told Eliot, touching his jaw and wincing.

"You, too. That last hit nearly cracked a rib. We didn't talk about the riot baton."

"We didn't talk about adding Mr. Dermott, here, either," said Dennis, grinning. "I'd better go back and tell Marty what happened before he comes out here to see for himself."

"Tell him thanks," said Eliot.

Denny waved and jogged away.

"So, let's talk, _Mr. Dermott_," said Eliot, as they walked back up to the house. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Getting my wife back," said Ron.

"Like father, like son," said Eliot. "How?"

"_Ron and Parker are going to work for Madeline Wencel—I mean Felicity Ackerman_," said Sophie. "_That will give her a measure of protection and provide us with more opportunities to find the file."_

"I had a plan," growled Eliot. "It was a good plan."

"_Yes, it was,"_ said Sophie. "_But now _**we**_ have a good plan."_

"Parker," said Eliot. "Did you know about this?"

"_Yep._ _Is it my turn, yet?"_

Sophie answered that one, too. "_Not yet. Once Madeline accepts Ron, he'll call you in_."

"Damn it," said Eliot, dragging his hair back into its ponytail. "I was trying to keep you all safe."

"_Eliot_," said Sophie. "_We're safer together than apart. Believe me, I know."_

_"Duh,"_ said Parker.

"_We all know that,"_ said Hardison. "_You and Nate are the only ones had to learn it the hard way."_

Eliot said a couple of bad words and Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "There's no fighting family," he said. "Just give in gracefully."

Eliot said another bad word. Parker laughed.

Two squad cars arrived as they reached the front and everyone moved to the living room to make or take statements. Denny had carefully dropped a pillowcase during the fight, so it was quickly agreed that robbery was the motive.

Madeline Wencel didn't argue—or speak much at all. She looked very fragile and very frightened.

"Do you have anyone to stay with you, ma'am?" asked the officer.

She started to shake her head, then looked at Eliot. "Mr. Spencer," she whispered. "Is that offer still open?"

"Yes, ma'am. Ron and another operative will stay with you until we can get a full security team down here. Ron, could you call Parker in, please?"

Ron nodded and put his hand to his earpiece. "Parker? Boss needs you."

"_Good. I was getting bored." _

"Can you stay, too Mr. Spencer?" asked Madeline, so softly he barely heard her. "There's plenty of room."

"_How does he _do_ that?"_ said Hardison. "_Seriously—how?"_

Eliot considered. "I have meetings all week . . . but if you don't mind me not being on site during the day . . .? "

She shook her head.

"Then thank you, I will." He grinned. "The accountant in charge of my expense account will send you flowers."

For the first time, Madeline smiled, and her washed out prettiness brightened into something more.

"_Eliot, what are you doing?"_ said Sophie. 

"I have an idea," he said under his breath. "Ron, I need to take care of a few things. What's Parker's ETA?"

"_Now." _Three seconds later, Parker came into the room wearing a more business casual version of her standard thieving outfit and sporting a big earpiece. "Alice Parker, reporting for duty," she said, popping a salute that belonged in the Marines.

Eliot hoped he was the only one who'd noticed she'd walked down the stairs.

* * *

**Please, please, please review! This is an important chapter . . . I hope.**


	15. Together Again—Jo

**Sorry this is late (I'm saying this a lot for this story). We all got the tummy bug that's going around and then my Netbook died in the middle of this chapter-just as I was backing it up.**

**But it's here now, and I hope it meets with your approval!**

* * *

The clock on the bedside table told Jo she'd slept for nine dreamless hours in a strange bed—without any thought of securing the room.

In retrospect, this wasn't the smartest thing she could've done after decking an Interpol agent. Either the pregnancy sleepies were getting to her . . . or belting Sterling had released all the tension she'd been storing up the last few days.

She flexed her hand and grinned. What did Spencer call it? Violence as an appropriate response. That sounded about right.

It was tempting to stay put, but she was wide awake and a little stiff, so she got up and did a modified Tai Chi sequence and some careful stretches. Her tendons were already feeling loose—Dr. Harbanks said her body remembered its childbirth preparations and was getting a head start.

At least _something _in her life was ahead of schedule.

She took a quick shower and dressed in her next-to-last clean outfit. She debated rinsing out a few things and decided to do it tonight. If they could reach Madeline today, there wouldn't be any point.

Carrying her shoes, she went into the living room and was startled to see Sterling sleeping on the couch, half propped up against the arm, a throw pillow under his head. He held an empty file folder in one hand; at some point, its contents had cascaded over him to the floor.

He didn't look any younger or more peaceful in sleep, just rumpled and unshaven. He was frowning, as if puzzling about something in his dreams.

Jo had caught Nate napping with that same expression one or twice in his living room—before Sophie had left and he'd started drinking himself unconscious. Parker had suggested it was because he had trouble turning off his brain—Jo wasn't sure if she'd meant the uneasy sleep or the drinking, but the explanation worked either way.

Sterling had to be worried—no, he probably didn't do _worried_. He had to be _concerned_ about Wencel and the corrupt agents. Not to mention the crazy pregnant lady he'd kidnapped.

Jo gathered papers off the floor as quietly as possible. Her gaze dropped to the top sheet and snagged on a name: _Douglas F. Marten_, _Jr. _Her heart skipped a beat before she realized it was about her first husband and not her son.

She sat and read it through—it was a police report about the car crash. She hadn't seen it before, but it didn't hold any revelations. The other pages were about the aftermath of that night, including her psychiatric assessment . . . and the death record of her firstborn son.

Reid. She noticed that his ninth birthday would have been next month and closed her eyes for a moment. Where did the time go?

She shook her head and reached over to slide the rest of the documents out of Sterling's grasp. His hand closed on them and his eyes flew open.

She backed away. "Good morning," she said.

He sat up in an efficient motion and rubbed the back of his neck. "That remains to be seen. You slept well, I assume."

"Very well." A thought struck her. "And no morning sickness for the first time in a month." Maybe she could bring Sterling to her pre-natal classes as a piñata.

"Glad to be of assistance." He looked at the papers in his hand, winced, and set them aside to scrub his face with both hands.

She dropped into the armchair. "I didn't hit you that hard, did I?"

He snorted. "In a way." He pointed to the papers in her hands. "Is that why you do what you do?"

"At the shelter, you mean? Pretty much. I'm also paying it forward," she added.

"I believe I owe you an apology," he said, after a short silence.

She snorted. "For what, exactly? Because I had some tough times, because the system failed me, or because the people who helped me aren't the criminals you thought they were? Or are you just sorry you dragged me into this—or for doubting my integrity?"

He sighed. "Would you accept a general, blanket apology?"

"I don't know yet."

He nodded and they sat in silence for a while. "How did they help you?"

She didn't have to ask him who he meant. "Why?"

"Because I want to know. Because Nathan Ford was a good man once . . . and now he claims to be a thief. He leads a band of thieves who now claim to be the good guys. And _you_ seem to think redemption is as easy as that," he snapped his fingers.

"Not quite that easy," she said. "I think some take it harder than others."

"I'd still like an explanation."

She studied him. She wasn't going to risk the team . . . but if she was any judge of character, Sterling was truly confused. "I won't testify about any of this," she said. "I refuse to be recorded in any way—if I'm recorded by anyone without my knowledge, I will do my best to make sure the public opinion that made you an Interpol agent will get you fired from this and any other job you find over minimum wage. Understood?" Tara had given her a contact number, "for emergencies," and Jo was fairly certain the fixer would give her a discount.

He nodded. "I won't repeat anything you say outside this room. I won't use any of it to pursue charges against anyone involved." He paused. "You have my word, if that's enough for you."

She considered this. "Your word is good, but your wording is tricky. Give me your phone and lift your shirt."

He raised an eyebrow, but did what she said. "I'm not wired. And as far as I know, the room isn't bugged. There's no one listening in, ready to pounce on your friends."

"Yeah? Show me _your_ ears."

"Touché, Ms. Schulte." He made a show of turning his head.

Jo put his phone on the coffee table and walked to the second bedroom. "Follow me." She went to the en suite and turned on the bathtub faucet, letting the water roar into the tub.

"Is this really necessary?" he said from the doorway.

She put down the lid of the toilet and sat. "It is if you want to hear this."

He swung the door shut and leaned against the sink counter, his arms folded. His usual smirk was present, but his eyes were intent.

Jo took a deep breath. "When I met Eliot Spencer, I'd been sleeping on the streets for almost two years, hiding from my former in-laws. . . "

The full story took a while to tell, with a stop for a glass of water and two bathroom breaks, during which Sterling waited outside. Otherwise, he listened with an unreadable expression, asking only one or two questions. She didn't fudge anything but names and locations—he'd know if she was lying and she didn't want to. He needed to hear the truth. What he did with it was his problem—she hoped.

" . . . Once the adoption went through," Jo finished, "we went back to Boston. Ron and I were married six months later and he adopted the next day. Eliot Spencer was our best man."

She looked at Sterling, not knowing what to expect. Disbelief? Anger? Remorse? Handcuffs?

"I suppose," he said, slowly, "that Parker was bridesmaid?"

She answered him in the same tone. "She turned me down—something about once being enough. But Hardison caught the bouquet."

A genuine grin flashed across his face, so quickly she almost missed it. "Who caught the garter?"

"Ron aimed it at Spencer, but he backhanded it to Nate. Hardison had given the bouquet to Sophie, so it all worked out."

"'It all worked out'. . . " Sterling exhaled. "Ms. Schulte, do you know how many laws . . ."

"I have a ballpark figure," she said. "But I also know that my son is with me and we aren't looking over our shoulders twenty-four-seven. They helped me do that when no one else would, or could."

"Ms Schulte . . . "

Think about it over lunch," she said, getting up to turn off the water. "It's past time you fed the pregnant lady."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Jo figured that Sterling had had enough fast food and confessions, so she suggested a small restaurant off the beaten path—Spencer had recommended it once, though Jo didn't mention that to Sterling. She was surprised she remembered—she hadn't been planning on coming back. Ever. But here she was, and her chicken Caesar wasn't bad.

The milk, on the other hand, was unspeakable, but she choked it down.

"Have you thought of yogurt?" asked Sterling, over his pasta.

"Only in my nightmares." Jo put down the glass and looked up as another diner walked past the table toward the bathroom. "Don't look now, but that woman with the red hair was giving you the eye."

He looked past her and set down his fork. "That would be because she's an Interpol agent."

"One of you or one of them?"

"I don't know. Excuse me." He stood and laid his napkin by his plate.

Jo debated following him, but she wasn't sure if he needed backup, or how much help she would be. Sterling didn't strike her as the kind of man who would balk going into the ladies' room if he found it necessary to do so. Hardison would dig in his heels and Spencer or Ron might hesitate, but neither Nate nor Sterling would care.

That was interesting—and completely irrelevant. She brought her wandering mind to heel and scanned the room along the route the red haired agent would have taken. No one in her line of sight seemed to be interested in her.

She forked up some of her salad, though her appetite had gone. That last time she'd been spooked like this—

"Josephine," said a cultured voice full of hate.

Jo swallowed. "Mrs. Marten," she said, willing her voice to be calm and dispassionate. "I have a restraining order."

"Do you?" Jo's former mother-in-law took Sterling's chair, looking every inch the lady. "Someone has been asking about you. You and your _friend_, David Spencer." The temperature of her voice dropped with each syllable.

Jo tensed, but tried not to show it—fear would be like blood in the water to this sociopath in socialite's clothing.

"Naturally, I found it ironic that anyone would think I _cared_ where you were or what you've been doing. But this nice young woman was _very_ persuasive." Mrs. Marten's face went vicious. "I've told her _everything_,"

"I doubt that," said Jo. "You haven't been arrested for fraud, theft, and attempted murder." The statute of limitations had expired three years ago for the fraud and the other two had only a few months to go, but she was betting Mrs. Marten didn't know that—it wouldn't occur to her that anyone would _dare_ bring charges against her for anything.

"You're going to get what you deserve, you nasty little bitch," hissed Mrs. Marten. Her hands flexed, and Jo knew the only thing keeping Mrs. Marten from stabbing her former daughter-in-law with Sterling's steak knife was her distaste for causing a scene.

"I already have, thank you."

The older woman barked a laugh. "She's with _Interpol_ you stupid, little bi—"

"So am I, madam," said Sterling, suddenly at Jo's side. "And Ms. Dermott has been telling me everything about _you_."

Mrs. Marten gave him a scathing once over, but her hand crept to the string of pearls around her neck. "You have no idea what this person has done to us."

"Whatever it was, I doubt it was enough to repay you for all you've done," he said. "But bullies bore me, so I'm afraid you will have to leave. Fifty feet, was it?" he asked Jo. "I do hope you haven't ordered yet."

"Do you have _any_ idea who I am?" demanded Mrs. Marten. "Who my husband is?"

"Madam," Sterling said with his patented smirk, "you and your husband mean less than nothing to me." He leaned down to look her in the eye and his gravelly voice went dangerous. "And if I am obliged to miss the remainder of my lunch to enforce Ms. Dermott's restraining order, please understand that I will _not_ be happy."

Mrs. Marten went still for a second, her face pale beneath her expensive rouge. Then, still gripping her pearls, she jerked to her feet and stalked away like a stiff wind-up toy.

Sterling slid into his seat and laid his napkin across his lap. "Lovely woman."

Jo choked out a laugh and picked up her water glass. She took a shaky sip and put it down before she spilled it. "She's one of my recurring nightmares."

"As well as the yogurt?"

"Yogurt's not actually pure evil. What happened with your colleague back there? What side is she on?"

"Ah. Well, it might be more productive to ask what side she thinks _I'm_ on." He smiled. "There was a certain exchange of information."

"And?"

"And it appears that Mrs. Wencel has hired bodyguards."

"That should make things harder for the bad guys."

"Will they make things harder for us?"

Jo considered. "Madeline might feel safer . . . or we'll never get near her. Either way, we have to try."

"Agreed." He picked up his fork. "After dessert."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Jo thought about directing Sterling to the back gates of what she would always think of as the Marten property, but Madeline needed to know she could trust them—and that meant no sneaking over the walls. It also meant coming in on foot, so the security staff would know they didn't have anyone hiding in the backseat.

"That sounds a bit extreme," said Sterling, as he parked three blacks away from the front gates.

"No, it doesn't," said Jo, getting out of the car. "Paranoia is a survival mechanism. And it's not a bad one for Madeline to have right now, don't you think?"

Sterling slammed his door and slipped the keys into his pocket as he joined her. "Perhaps not, but—"

A car screeched to the curb and three rough-looking men got out. They moved down the sidewalk, looking like a bad time for someone else, until one of them glanced back at Jo and Sterling.

"Oh, _great_," she said, as the thug did a double take.

"Well, damn," he said. "Hey, guys, it must be Christmas. Remember us?"

"Yeah," she said. "I remember you."

"You owe us for Eddie, bitch," said the thug wearing the green jacket. "And since Mr. Wencel doesn't need you anymore, I guess it's time to collect."

"Who's Eddie?" murmured Sterling.

"The guy I left tied up in the closet," she told him under her breath. "Boyfriend of the bait. Wencel owes you for Eddie," she called. "I owe you for the knockout gas."

Green jacket snarled and took a step, but Sterling was in the way. "Back off," he said. "Unless you want Mr. Wencel to put _you_ out of your stupidity, too."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Mr. Wencel and I have an arrangement," said Sterling. "I do the odd assignment for him, when others can't seem to get the job done. He called me when Mrs. Schulte escaped your custody."

"Why should we believe you?"

"I don't care what you believe. But here she is, and I'm going to use her to get to Mrs. Wencel. But I'm a reasonable man." Sterling smiled. "Once I'm in, you can have her."

"Thanks a lot," said Jo, not one-hundred percent sure he was bluffing.

"What's keeping us from taking her and going in first?" said the third man.

Sterling held up two fists. There was a soft double snick, and a riot baton and a wicked-looking switchblade appeared in his hands. "Me," he said.

The men glanced at each other.

"Stay behind me," said Sterling softly.

"The hell," said Jo. She'd have to be careful, but if she played this right . . . "Got any paperclips?"

"What?"

"Never mind." She chopped at his arm and wrenched the baton out of his hand. "Stay away from me," she screamed, holding it up and backing away. "All of you."

Sterling turned and she swung at him, missing by inches. "Help! Somebody help!"

"Hey!" yelled someone behind her.

The thugs looked past her. Sterling kept an eye on them. "What are you doing?"

"Alerting Madeline's guards. I hope."

But instead of running, the thugs grinned. "You our contact?" said the first one.

"One of you Gary?" a voice growled. A hand landed on Jo's shoulder, and she shuddered. She lifted the baton and it was taken from her in one smooth motion.

Sterling dropped into a defensive crouch, his eyes narrowed.

"Yeah," said Green jacket. "Keep hold of the bitch while we take care of this happy asshole."

"I got a better idea." The riot baton flew past Jo's ear and bounced off Green jacket's skull, sending him staggering.

"What th—" said the first thug, before taking a foot to the solar plexus and curling up on the ground. Green jacket recovered enough to take an uppercut to the chin, sending him crashing down next to his gasping buddy.

The third thug tried to run, but Sterling caught up to him and smashed him on the back of the head with a fist weighted with the switchblade handle. He faced their unlikely rescuer, blade ready.

"Are we gonna have a problem now, Sterling?" said Spencer, moving past the other man without sparing him a glance.

Jo put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes prickled.

"What are _you_ doing here?" asked Sterling.

Spencer shook his hair back and stopped in front of Jo. "I was hired by Robert Wencel to find his wife."

Sterling drew in a breath. "I should have known—"

"Shut up. Are you okay?" he asked Jo, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving her stomach a worried look.

She dropped her hand and took in a shaky breath. "I'm fine. We're fine."

"You still can't lie worth a damn. _Are you okay?_"

"_Yes._ The baby's fine—and I'm much better now."

"Then why the tears?"

She brushed at her eyes and grinned at him. "I'm _pregnant_, you idiot. I cry at toilet paper commercials. Get used to it."

"Hmmph." He squeezed her shoulders and let go. "You're here for Madeline, too." It wasn't a question.

Jo snorted. "Isn't everyone?"

"So far. How's it going for you?"

"She's proving stubborn," said Sterling.

"She's scared," said Jo.

"She should be," said Spencer. "Wencel hired me to do a more than find her. He wants me to get rid her. You, too," he told Jo.

"Damn," she said. "There goes Thanksgiving."

"Does he know about me?" asked Sterling.

"Oh, yeah. Wencel wants some breathing room—he thinks your death will do it." He smiled. "That was my idea."

"Knock it off, Spencer," said Jo. "We're on our way to see Madeline now."

"Mind if I tag along?"

"What about these guys?"

He tugged an earlobe. "They'll keep."

They arrived at the gate and Jo located and faced the camera. "I'd better do the talking," she said.

"Yes?" said a distorted voice.

"Jo Schulte to see Ms. Ackerman."

There was a pause. "Tell the man to your right to identify himself."

"James Sterling," said Sterling, holding up his ID.

"Interpol." The distortion didn't hide the dislike.

"Correct." Sterling tucked his wallet away. "Is that a problem?"

"Ms. Ackerman gave specific orders—"

Spencer stepped up. "He's with me."

Anotherpause. "Yes, sir." The gate clicked open and Spencer walked in.

Sterling and Jo exchanged a look and followed.

"You want to explain that?" asked Jo.

He shrugged. "Remember when I worked for the Martens? I got my old job back. Hired a couple of friends, too."

"Do those _friends_ include a certain master thief?" asked Sterling.

"Who do you think you were talking to? If those documents are in the house, Parker will find them."

"What the _hell_, Spencer!" said Jo, smacking him in the arm. "Sterling is going to arrest you all and throw away the _key_."

"That right, Sterling? You gonna arrest us, too? Collect the whole set?"

The two men sized each other up. Jo made a movement to get between them and stopped herself—she wasn't suicidal and this wasn't her fight.

"Are you going to kill Mrs. Wencel and Ms. Schulte?"

"Hadn't planned on it. I thought we'd help find those documents and help you nail Robert Wencel to the wall."

"In that case . . . I'll let it pass."

Spencer said something else, but a tall man threw open the front door and Jo lost all interest. She started to run, and Ron met her in the middle.

He swung her around and held her close. "Thank God," he whispered in her ear before using his lips to show her exactly how much he'd missed her. She wound her arms around his neck and held on.

A throat cleared behind them. "Mr. Schulte, I presume?"

Ron lifted his head. "Mr. Sterling. Thank you for taking care of Jo."

"It was the least I could do for bringing her into this," said Sterling, holding out a hand.

Ron let Jo go to take it, but kept an arm around her.

"I was already in," said Jo, leaning against him. "Wait a minute. If you and Parker and Spencer are here, where's Dougie?"

Spencer didn't say anything.

"With Hardison and Sophie," said Ron.

She waited, then looked between him and Spencer. "And where are _they_?"

Spencer frowned and shrugged. "Sterling, how about we go see Marietta Ackerman?"

"Now?" said Sterling.

"Ron," said Jo, biting off her words. "Where is our son?"

"Now's good," said Spencer.

"Jo," said Ron, using his calmest voice, the one that suddenly made her want to punch a wall. "You know I would never do anything—"

"He's here, isn't he," said Jo, pushing away from him. "You brought him _here_. To Franklinsburg. To _this house_." She felt her entire body flush with rage.

Behind her, she heard Spencer say, "Yeah, I'm just gonna go. . . "

"Honey, stress isn't good for the—"

"Ronald Everett Schulte, what were you_ thinking?_"

"Wait for me," said Sterling.


	16. Words—Eliot

**Thank you all so much for your reviews and alerts and _patience . . . _I know exactly where this story is going, but getting it there has been like giving _birth, _only _slower. _Sheesh.**

* * *

Eliot led the way through the house to the back room, but lost Sterling somewhere along the way. He swore under his breath as he backtracked. If Madeline saw a strange man in the house, things could get ugly. She was supposed to be doing physical therapy for another twenty minutes, but still . . .

He found Sterling in the formal dining room, studying one of the paintings. "What are you doing?" he growled.

"Is Mrs. Wencel aware that these are all reproductions?" asked the former insurance investigator. "Some of them very poor quality?"

"She told me they came with the house and weren't worth protecting. Nate must have told her."

"Mmmm. I don't suppose you know where the real ones might be?"

Eliot shrugged. "We weren't here for the art," he said, side-stepping. "The Martens were strapped for cash—if they owned anything good, it was probably sold before they moved out." In fact, he could guarantee it.

Sterling gave him an assessing look, but for once didn't push. "Where is the control room?" he asked.

Eliot knocked 'shave and a haircut' on the door before opening it. Parker was watching two monitors, each one displaying a different camera along the same corridor. "Camera two, four centimeters left," she said, and one of the views slid to overlap the other. "Hold it."

She made a note on a clipboard, stuck the pencil behind her ear and spun around. "Sterling," she said.

"Parker. You look . . . official." His voice was tinged with faint surprise. "Isn't this more Mr. Hardison's milieu?"

"He's busy," she said. "_You_ looked like a bad gang movie out there. A knife _and_ a riot baton?"

"Mrs. Schulte needed a weapon. Under the circumstances, I couldn't simply hand her one."

Eliot folded his arms. "Are you saying you _let_ Jo take the baton?"

Sterling smiled.

"Hey, Jo," said Parker, swiveling back and forth in her seat. "Sterling said he_ let_ you take his baton."

"Sure," said Jo from the doorway. "You don't think his fighting style is that cheesy, do you?"

"Maybe," said Parker. "I've never seen Sterling fight anyone but Eliot. And even then he was pretty much just trying to get away."

Sterling lost his smile.

Spencer kept his to himself. Truce or not, they probably shouldn't antagonize Sterling too much. For now. "Did you let Ron live?"

"_Barely,_" said Ron in his ear, sounding cheerful about it. "_I'll be in later—I'm going to go make sure our guests are as uncomfortable as possible."_

Jo reddened. "I apologized, too—you'd think he'd get tired of me blaming him for my issues."

"You're pregnant," said Eliot, with a grin. "You get mad over toilet paper commercials. He'll get used to it."

"_I hope not," _said Ron.

"I hope not," said Jo. She raised her voice. "Dougie, I know you can hear me. Get down here pronto, mister."

"Are you mad at him?" asked Parker, a wrinkle appearing between her eyes.

"Scared-mad, yeah. It's a Mom-thing. Plus, I saw the Martens today."

Eliot stiffened. "They try anything?"

"Just threats. My dear ex-mother-in-law has an Interpol agent of her very own. And she told her _everything._" She rolled her eyes.

"Her?" asked Eliot. "Red-hair? About so tall?"

"You know her?"

"Not as well as I'd like to." Starting with her name— and why he suddenly had Sterling's full attention.

"_Hey, Parker_," said Hardison, "_Didn't you tell Eliot that McSweeten called you about that agent?"_

"I forgot."

"_You did_? _Just forgot all about him_?"

"Hardison," Eliot subvocalized. "Today."

"_Right, sorry. Her name's Quinn. First name is, uh, Seeob . . . Sibo . . . Seeob-han_."

"_Siobhan_," said Sophie, pronouncing it _Shevonne_. "_It's Irish, Hardison_."

"_Sure, right. That's what I said._ _Siobhan-Shevonne_. _It's obvious. The Sio making the _she _and the b-h making the _vee_ thing . . . that's Irish all right. That's, what is that, Geelic, garlic—"_

_"It's Gaelic, Hardison."_

_"Swhat I said."_

"You know," said Sterling. "Maggie was right. There's a certain expression you all have when you're listening to those earbuds of yours."

"They mutter in their throats, too," said Jo. "Sometimes they forget they aren't wearing them and you don't know if they're trying to communicate or dealing with congestion."

"Is that what that is?"

"_I beg your pardon,"_ said Sophie. "_I don't _mutter."

"_When did _they_ get to be bffs?_" asked Hardison.

"Stockholm Syndrome," said Eliot, wondering if it was true.

"See?" said Jo. "You just did both."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes you did." Parker frowned and touched her ear. "Do I do that?" She covered her mouth. "Oh! Did I just do that?"

Sterling smirked.

"If you're all done now," said Eliot, "We can—"

"Mom!"

Jo spun around as Dougie bounced off the doorframe. Eliot almost warned him to watch out for the baby, but Jo put up a hand at the last second and the kid skidded to a stop.

"Douglas Franklin Schulte," she said putting her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here?"

He mirrored her pose. "Bringing you back home."

"Putting yourself in danger, you mean, without _one thought_ for your own safety or how much I'd worry about you. What the hell were you _thinking?"_

Dougie opened his eyes in pure innocence, something he must have picked up from Nate. But the grin was all his. "Payback's a bitch?"

Eliot gave a silent whistle, while Sophie choked in his ear and Sterling turned away to cough.

"_Day-um,_" said Hardison._ "Nice knowing you, bro."_

_"He's got a point,_" said Ron.

Jo shook her head slowly, then opened her arms. "C'mere."

He hugged her fiercely, but not, Eliot noticed, tightly around the middle. They let go at the same time and Jo brushed his sandy hair back. She removed his earbud and whispered something. He shrugged and whispered something back.

"Franklin?" murmured Sterling. "As in, Franklinburg?"

Eliot squinted at him. How much did he know about Jo and Dougie?

"Ms. Schulte told me a very interesting story this morning." The corners of his mouth twitched. "And I met Mrs. Marten at lunch."

"What did you think of her?"

"Old money, assumptions of privilege, and the maternal instinct of a barracuda. Whoever removed that young man from her care," he said, watching Jo hand the earbud back to Dougie and ruffle his hair, "did the right thing."

"Hey, kid," said Eliot. "She let you off easy."

"Not really," said Dougie, studiously ignoring Sterling. "I'm on dish duty for two months."

"And garbage for four," said Jo.

He sighed. "Parker, I think camera one needs a nudge to the right."

She spun around again to check the monitor. "Why?"

He pointed over her shoulder. "See that?"

She frowned and moved his hand. "Maybe. Go try it and I'll tell you."

"This young man is the one adjusting those cameras?" asked Sterling, his eyebrows high.

Parker and Dougie glanced at him with identical expressions of amused scorn.

"This him?" said Dougie.

"That's him," said Parker.

"Mr. Sterling," said Jo, "this is my son, Dougie, who is being rude. Dougie, this is James Sterling. Who saved my life."

Sterling held out a hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Douglas."

Dougie studied him for a moment, then shook. "Likewise. Thanks for helping my Mom," he said, though his expression added, _if that's what you did_. "I'm gonna go fix the rest of the cameras."

"Don't let Mrs. Wencel see you," said Eliot.

The kid rolled his eyes, probably for Sterling's benefit. "In _this_ house? Please." He shoved his earbud into place, slid around Jo, and loped out of the room.

"And you were worried he wasn't a normal teenager," said Jo, as if her son hadn't just palmed an earbud from a master thief and passed it to her as he left.

"He's got the attitude down," said Eliot, as if he hadn't seen a thing.

Sterling folded his arms. "Am I to infer," he said, "that Parker is Dougie's . . . mentor?"

"I'm his _advocate_," said Parker, as if that explained everything.

It didn't, even to Eliot. The closest he could figure was that Dougie was Parker about nineteen pounds less crazy . . . and that Parker was determined he'd stay that way. It amazed him that it seemed to be working.

Sterling frowned. "His . . . ?"

"They have an understanding," said Jo, tucking her hair behind her ear. "What's the plan?"

Eliot smiled. "You're going to love this one. It's _poetic_."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"I can see only one or two problems," said Sterling, after Eliot finished explaining the general plan.

"_That makes me feel better," _said Hardison, who had filled Jo in on the details that were none of Interpol's business. "_I counted five."_

Eliot shrugged. "You got something to add, _Sterling,_ be my guest."

"Can Madeline Wencel be persuaded to go along with this? She's not receptive as it is, and this will be disastrous for her if it doesn't work."

Eliot almost made a remark about how much Sterling cared about anything but Sterling, but let it go.

"It's the only way she can be safe," said Jo. "She's done well, but hiding away from everything is no way to live. She has to know that. We need to make sure it isn't worth it for her husband to send anyone after her."

Eliot nodded. "And she's not that safe anymore. If we found her, others can. It might take a little longer, but it's just a matter of time."

"How did you?" she asked. "We had to go ask Nate."

"Guess we know him a little better than most," said Eliot. "No offense, Sterling. Anything else?"

Sterling's nostrils flared, but he said, "What makes you think Wencel isn't onto you? His thugs were right outside the gates."

"That's because I told them to meet me there. I called Wencel to give him a status report and he sent me those guys as back up. Don't worry, Sterling—we stashed them in the garden shed."

"_We?"_ asked Ron.

"They're the ones who gassed me," said Jo.

"We know," said Eliot. "That's why they're in the shed. There's a colony of wolf spiders bigger than baseballs out there."

"_Ugh_," said Sophie.

"They like the fertilizer," said Parker. "It's warm. And so are people."

"Do you know which gas they used?" asked Sterling.

"Xenoflurane," said Eliot, as Jo tensed. "No evidence of birth defects. It's probably the best stuff they could have used."

"Coincidence?" asked Sterling.

"We think so, yeah. These guys used what was handy." His gaze went to Jo. "We were lucky," he added, remembering the time when they weren't.

Jo exhaled. "So it's okay that I still want them dead?"

"Sure." So did he, but it wouldn't be smart to say it in front of Sterling. "If it helps, the fertilizer's pure cow manure," said Eliot. "Nice and fresh."

She grinned. "Parker?"

The thief shook her head without turning around. "That was Hardison's idea. I found the spiders. They like it better in the shed anyway."

"Nice. Thanks, Parker." She patted the thief's shoulder and Eliot could see Parker's smile reflected on the screen. "When's the best time to see Madeline? I assume she doesn't know we're here?"

"She's with her new physical therapist right now," said Eliot. He frowned and checked the time. "Should have been done by now."

"I'm sure you've thought of this, but how do you know the physical therapist isn't one of Wencel's people?" asked Sterling.

"We know," said Parker.

"I assume Mr. Hardison did a very thorough check?"

"No, he took my word for it," said a voice from the doorway. "Hello, Mr. Sterling."

Sterling raised his eyebrows. "Ms. Devereaux. Or are you going by something else these days?"

"That name will do for now," she said, her amusement not quite reaching her eyes. "I find a have a sort of . . . sentimental attachment to it."

"I'm sure. Is Mrs. Wencel available now?"

"Give her time to shower and change. Jo—it's good to have you back." She went over to give Jo a hug. "How do you feel? We'll have to go baby shopping as soon as we get back."

"I'll feel a lot better once this is over. How's Madeline?"

"She's one big tension-filled knot." Sophie shook her head. "We've got to get her out from under or she'll snap in half."

"Then let's go." Parker stood and started for the door. Jo followed her out.

Sterling stopped in front of Sophie and Eliot moved closer, not sure whether he wanted to keep her from slapping Sterling, or if he wanted to hold him still for her.

"One more question. Would Nate approve of your plan?"

Sophie smiled, though her eyes remained cold. "Well," she said. "You're the reason he's not here, so it's a little late in the day to be worrying, don't you think?"

Sterling's mouth tightened, but he inclined his head to acknowledge the hit, even though she'd already turned away.

"Won't Mrs. Wencel wonder why her new therapist is sitting in on the conversation?"

"Don't worry about that," Sophie said over her shoulder. "I'm an old friend of David Spencer. He recommended me."

"Convenient," said Sterling, moving after her.

"Yes."

"Hold it, Sterling." Eliot grabbed his arm and pulled him back. With his other hand, he switched off his earbud and then leaned in close. "Jo's opinion holds a lot of weight with us, but she don't know you like we do. You will _not_ pull one of your last second screw-overs on her. Understand me?"

Sterling jerked away and Eliot let him go. "Hiding behind a woman, Mr. Spencer?" he asked, straightening his jacket and tugging at his cuffs.

"Protecting one. See that you do the same." He stared into the angry brown eyes. "This ain't just a job, Sterling. It's family. And you've done enough to ours already. Watch yourself. Or I'll do it for you."

Sterling's jaw clenched, and Eliot braced for an attack. But the moment passed and Sterling visibly drew himself together. "You have my word," he said, his voice still barely above a growl.

"Good." Eliot gave him a push. "Let's go." He reached for his ear.

"Wait," said Sterling.

"What?"

The other man gave him an assessing look. "I want your word, too."

Eliot tensed. Here came the offer, the bargain guaranteed to bite him on the ass. Was this how Nate had felt? "On what?"

"I'll protect yours," said Sterling. "If you protect mine."

It was Eliot's turn to assess. If he didn't know better, he'd say Sterling was . . . worried. But Sterling didn't _do_ worried.

"I'm listening," he said.

* * *

**I know this is short, but please bear with me. Things, they are a-happening.**

**And please tell me if it's worth continuing . . . I know. I'm needy.**


	17. Priorities—Jo

**More****—not a _lot_ more, but there will be soon. Promise.**

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The living room looked the same as when Jo had last been in the house. Most of the space was taken up by two Queen Anne sofas separated by a low coffee table. She'd always hated this room—Mrs. Marten's throne room. She'd been escorted out of here, once, and she still thought she sensed the disapproval.

But at second look, everything seemed a little dingy now, a little threadbare. It had been seven years . . . maybe it was time to lay the past to rest? Not to forget, not to forgive—ever—but to stop allowing one sociopathic old woman to have any influence over her.

Interesting thought.

Sophie drew her aside. "You saw him."

Jo didn't have to ask. She just nodded.

"How did he look?"

Jo wondered if Sophie knew Nate had been shot. If not, now wasn't the time to bring it up. "He looked . . . a little pasty."

Sophie tried to smile. "Orange never was his color. Is he all right, Jo?"

"He's fine. Up to his old tricks—he had Sterling biting through his Blackberry."

That made Sophie laugh. "Good. That's good. Did he, ah . . ."

"He asked about you."

Sophie went pink. "About me? I mean, us?"

"_You_," said Jo. "I told him about the others, but he wanted to know about you—if you okay, if I thought you would ever forgive him."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd have hit him harder."

"Not after that kiss you wouldn't have." Sophie smiled her old, powerful smile—the one Jo hadn't seen in months. "Which doesn't mean I'll forgive him straight away."

"Good plan."

"_Ms. Ackerman_?" said Spencer from the hallway. "_Could I speak to you for a minute_?"

"_Of course. Is something wrong_?"

"_Yes and no."_ He held the door open.

Madeline Wencel looked no less hunted than the last time Jo had seen her, though she was walking—if slowly—with the help of the cane Marty had mentioned. She stopped short as she saw all the people in her living room.

"David?" she asked, clutching Spencer's arm.

"It's okay," he said, leading her to one of the two sofas in the room.

She sat next to him, wary gaze flitting from person to person. "Jo?"

"Madeline," said Jo. "It's good to see you again."

Madeline shook her head. "David, what's going on?"

"It's okay," he said again, as if he was soothing a skittish horse. "Everything's fine."

She looked unconvinced. "Who are they?" She gestured to Hardison and Sterling, who sat on opposite sides of the opposite sofa.

"Alec's my computer expert," said Spencer.

"Ma'am," said Hardison, nodding.

"And this is—"

"James Sterling," said Sterling, using his charming smile. "Interpol."

Madeline shrank back in her seat.

"Don't worry," said Parker. "He's one of the good ones. Sort of."

"Thank you," said Sterling, irony heavy in his voice. "Mrs. Wencel, I'm here to round up the Interpol agents who _are_ on your husband's payroll. With their testimony, I can put your husband away for life—his life."

Madeline blinked at him. "Robert said Interpol couldn't touch him."

"Your ex says a lot of things," said Spencer. "Doesn't make any of 'em true."

Madeline looked up at him, trust and doubt warring in her expression. Jo rolled her eyes. Was she the only woman in the world who was immune to Eliot Spencer? She glanced at Parker, who was standing in a strange sort of parade rest, and Sophie, who appeared to be keeping an equal eye on Madeline and Sterling. Maybe not.

"Please hear us out," said Sophie. "Your ex-husband is hunting you and so are those corrupt agents. They aren't going to stop until they do."

Madeline's eyes went wide. "Do they know where I am?"

"We don't think so, not yet," said Spencer. "But they're getting close. Your ex-husband has feelers out everywhere—you already know he's connected to law enforcement. He even tried to have Jo kidnapped to get to you."

"Kidnapped? Jo?" Madeline's fingers clutched her cane. "Oh, I'm so sorry . . . "

"Don't be," said Jo. "It wasn't your fault."

"None of this is your fault," said Sophie, crossing to sit next to her.

Madeline lifted her shoulders and brushed at her eyes. "How did _you_ find me? No one knew except . . . except the man who helped me."

"Nathan Ford," said Jo. "He's worried about you," she added. "He wouldn't have told me otherwise."

"What if my husband finds Mr. Ford, too? He can be very persuasive."

"Nathan Ford can be a very stubborn man," said Sterling, pausing as Hardison coughed and Parker snorted. "But believe me; he's well out of your ex-husband's reach."

After a moment, Madeline nodded and looked at Spencer. "Are you really from Sicherheit?" She didn't sound angry or wary, just curious. That was good.

"We aren't in the private security division," said Spencer. "But we made an exception for you. All of us but Ron," he added.

Ron's my husband," said Jo, unable to suppress a grin. "He came to find me."

"Always," said Ron from the doorway. "All's well, boss," he told Spencer.

Spencer nodded and turned to Madeline. "I hope you can forgive me for lying my way in here, but Jo said you needed protection. I agree with her. We need to make sure you're safe."

"_Safe_?" Madeline shook her head. "Please, just help me leave. It won't take me long to get my things together—I never really unpacked."

Spencer got in her way. "That won't work," he said. "He'll keep coming after you and Jo. We need to put him away for good. Sterling says the stuff you and Nathan Ford took from the bank could help."

Madeline blinked. "I don't think—"

"It can be done," said Sophie. "We're all very good at what we do. Even Sterling."

"Thank you."

Madeline stared at her and sank back down. "I don't understand any of this."

"That's okay," said Parker. "You don't have much to do anyway."

"What Parker means," said Sophie, "is that we're going to set a trap for your husband and his men so you won't have to worry about them anymore. You don't have to do anything—you'll be in the control room with Alec and Jo."

Jo frowned. "What do you mean, _and Jo_?"

"Hey, I showered today," said Hardison. "Even put on a clean shirt for the occasion."

"That's _not_ what I meant," said Jo. "Spencer—"

"You're the last line of defense, Jo," said Spencer. "The last line." He stared at Sterling. "The two priorities here are Madeline and the baby."

"Agreed," said the Interpol agent.

"Baby?" asked Madeline, looking confused.

"No arguments, Jo," said Ron in the voice that meant his foot was down.

Jo sighed and touched her stomach. "You aren't the boss of me," she said. "But I guess Southside is."

He grinned. "And we both love you, too."

"_Ugh,"_ said Dougie in her ear. "_Now _I've_ got morning sickness._"

"We all do," muttered Hardison.

"Love me, or have morning sickness?" asked Jo, forgetting that Madeline wouldn't be in on the joke.

"Little of both," said Hardison, grinning.

Madeline shook her head. "I'm lost."

"Don't worry," said Sophie, patting her hand. "We'll soon have you found again. Come on—let's take a look at your wardrobe."

"My wardrobe?"

"Clothes make the woman," said Sophie, rising. "Don't you agree?" She held out a hand.

Madeline took it. "Are you really a physical therapist?"

"Not always," said Sophie. "Sometimes I'm other people."

"Which other people?"

"You'll see."

As the two women left, Ron moved to the sofa and sat next to Jo. He took her hand and fiddled with her wedding ring.

She leaned against him. "Should we have told Madeline about Dougie?"

"It probably wouldn't have helped her much to find out a fourteen-year old is on her security detail. No offense," he added.

"_None taken_,"said Dougie. "_I'm used to it."_

"You'd better not be," said Jo. "You know you're staying out of the rest of this, right?" She waited. "Douglas?"

"_I'm staying upstairs," _he said. "_If things go wrong, I'll meet everyone at the van."_

"Do you have the keys—listen to who I'm asking," said Hardison. "Never mind—any sign of the file?"

"_Nowhere we've looked. It's supposed to be a pretty good-sized folder, right?"_

"Right," said Parker, coming closer. "Dossier-sized, probably."

"Unless it's on a flash drive or CD or something," said Hardison. "No sign of anything on her laptop. It's got to be here, somewhere—she doesn't have a deposit box anywhere I could find."

"_Huh,"_ said Dougie. "_You know what I think?"_

Across the room, Spencer took out his phone.

"Tell us in a minute," said Jo. "The party is about to start."

"Mr. Wencel," said Spencer. "I found your wife. But there's been a complication . . ."

* * *

**If you celebrate Christmas, have a merry one!**


	18. Point Blank — Eliot

**Update: I realized about ten minutes ago that I'd used the wrong draft for this chapter! This is the right one.**

**So if you've already read it, please try it again and tell me if it makes more sense. If you've already commented, please drop me a PM, if you have the time.**

**Sorry and thank you!**

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As expected, Wencel made Eliot wait before calling back on his private line. If he meant to put Eliot in his place, it worked—in fact, the extra forty-five minutes were appreciated, considering the place Eliot needed to be.

"_I'm paying you to fix problems, Mr. Spencer. Not report them."_

"You're not paying me to be stupid. And I'd have to be pretty stupid to give you an excuse to renege on the contract and ruin my rep."

"_What are you talking about? Either you've found her or you haven't."_

"I found her," said Eliot. "But I need a positive ID."

"_I told you to send me photos after_."

"Yeah, well, I'm sending 'em now. " He rapped on the window, held up his phone and took some candid shots of the living room. He sat down on the stepladder, and hit send. "Check your e-mail."

"_How did you—" _Eliot heard the sound of clicking keys._ "What is this? Who am I looking at?"_

"Your wife and a close friend." He grinned, knowing the other man would catch his amusement. "A very close friend."

"_That's not Madeline. It doesn't look anything like her."_

"Exactly. I'm thinking major plastic surgery. Quality work, too, from what I can see."

"_No. You've made a mistake."_

Eliot hardened his voice. "I don't make mistakes, Mr. Wencel. That's why you hired me."

"_Madeline wouldn't—it isn't her."_

"Give a woman a makeover and a taste of freedom, and who knows? Take another look. Didn't she, ah, fall down the stairs right before she took off? Shattered her leg? My sources say she had to have it rebroken a month ago. See the cast?"

Silence.

"And that birthmark on her, uh, lower back in the third photo—and the scars on her shoulder? Look familiar?"

The reply was guttural. "_Who is he?"_

"That would be the ballsy little Interpol agent you told me about. Looks like he's keeping a very close eye on his witness."

Eliot heard nothing but harsh breathing.

"So here's the problem, Mr. Wencel. I'll get rid of the agent and I'll find your documents. But if you aren't one hundred percent sure this woman is your wife, she goes free." He listened to the breathing for a couple seconds. "I don't like breaking a contract any more than you do, but I can only think of one way we'll both be satisfied that the right person got what's coming to her."

"_How?"_

"You'll have to come down here and see for yourself. Face to face." He rapped on the window again.

There was a pause. "_No. Too risky._"

"I agree. I've never asked a client to put himself in danger. It's bad for business." Eliot looked through the window, whistled silently, and took one more picture. Over the phone, he heard a _ping_, a click, and a sharp intake of breath. "So, I guess the question is, how bad do you want her to pay?"

"_Where are you_?"

"Franklinburg, Pennsylvania. You want me to move in on Agent Sterling?"

"_Kill him. Make it hurt. But don't spook her—and _don't_ touch her. You or the others. She's mine."_

"What others? I work alone."

"_You work the way I tell you to. I sent three men to Franklinburg to help you. They should have arrived this morning."_

"They haven't. What about my bonus?"

"_You'll get it. Call it a finder's fee. Send me the address—I'll be there in three hours_." The phone went dead.

Eliot glanced at all the people watching him from the living room, two of them adjusting their clothes without looking at each other. "We'll be waiting."

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"_Are you sure this is going to work_?" asked Madeline for the fourth time. Eliot could hear her worry through his earbud.

"_I know it seems a little odd_," said Jo. "_Okay, a lot odd. But that's when they do their best work_."

"Yeah, well, I'd feel a lot better about this if you two were in the van," said Eliot, watching the skies.

"_Me, too,"_ said Ron.

"_Sorry,_" said Hardison. "_But that van ain't Lucille and I've just spent two days making sure no one can get in or out of this security system. That means Mrs. Wencel needs to be here looking at the camera feeds so she can help Sophie."_

"I'm telling you, Wencel bought it, hook, line, and sinker."

"_Yes," _said Sophie. "_But he's had hours to think it over. We can't take the chance."_

"_And if you two want Jo out of here, y'all can move her," _said Hardison. "_The woman is standing here fiddling with the biggest paperclip I have ever seen." _

Jo snorted. _"I'm not leaving Madeline. Or Dou—or the rest of you."_

"_I _said_ I'd leave if things get bad," _said Dougie, whose earbud didn't go to the speaker in the control room, "_as long as you promise to do the same."_

"_I _said_ I would."_

"_The oddest thing is hearing only half the conversations around here,"_ said Madeline. "_Should I have one of those ear-thingies, too?"_

"_Everyone can hear you through ours," _said Eliot. "_They aren't that comfortable anyway."_

"_And they make you look like you're muttering to yourself," _said Jo.

"_I noticed that,"_ said Madeline. "_And there's this kind of stare—"_

"_Hey, now," _said Hardison.

"_Seriously," _said Parker, _"do I do that?"_

"Yes," said Eliot. "You do. We all do. Now will you all put a sock in it for a minute?"

There was silence for four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

"_Oh, God, when is he going to get here? The wait is killing me. I can't do this."_

"_Of course you can," _said Jo. "_You're stronger than you think."_

"_What if I'm not?"_

"_Then we'll be strong for you," said Sophie. "That's what we do."_

"Here he comes," said Eliot, hearing the distinctive sound of rotors in the distance. "Sterling, you got an ETA on your buddies?"

"_Best guess, fifteen minutes."_

"That's cutting it close," said Eliot.

"_Don't worry," _said Sophie. "_Just bring Wencel through the kitchen."_

"Right. Lock down the control room."

"_Already done," _said Jo.

Eliot turned his full attention to the dot growing larger and louder in the sky. A Bell JetRanger—five men, tops, including the pilot. How many men would Wencel bring to a murder?

The helicopter landed in the field and the rotors came to a stop. Two men got out—Wencel and one of the bodyguards from Starbucks. The bodyguard spotted Eliot and kept an eye on him while Wencel waited for the pilot. Who turned out to be a certain redhead.

"Agent Kelly, as I live and breathe," said Eliot, as they all met.

"Mr. Spencer," she said, her eyes unreadable behind dark glasses—but she didn't look relaxed or happy.

Neither did the bodyguard, who clearly thought this was a very bad idea. That made him smart, which might be a problem . . . except his boss was just as clearly running on rage.

"Report."

"She's home. And alone when I left."

The bodyguard spoke in a deep voice. "She have a security system?"

"Yeah." Eliot offered him a small smile. "Me." He pointed. "Car's over there. It's a five minute drive."

"Does Sicherheit know you're moonlighting?" asked Agent Kelly as she picked her way through the grass.

Eliot raised his eyebrows. "Does Interpol know about you?"

She pressed her lips together and kept moving. When they reached the car, she took shotgun, leaving the backseat to Wencel and his bodyguard. It made good tactical sense, but Eliot had a strong feeling that she wanted to keep a certain distance from her boss. He didn't blame her.

Before he started the ignition, Eliot handed back a flash drive. "You wanted proof of James Sterling's death." He didn't think he imagined the faint gasp from the passenger's side, though Agent Kelly's face remained blank.

Wencel pulled a handheld from his jacket pocket and plugged in the drive. He stared at the screen, thumbing through the images.

Eliot privately admitted that he'd been a little disturbed by the first batch, and by how much the team had enjoyed helping Hardison cook them up. Eliot had told the hacker to scale way back, and even then the final ones were just this side of too much.

Watching Wencel's savage grin in the rearview mirror, Eliot wondered if he should have bothered.

The bodyguard glanced over and did a double take. "There's no way you did this much damage in what, two hours?"

"It's all in the wrist," said Eliot.

"I'm sure Mr. Spencer would be glad to explain his methods," said Wencel.

Eliot did, at great and detailed length. He might have enjoyed it as an exercise—or because he knew Sterling could hear him—but he was all too aware that the psychopath in the backseat was loving every gristly detail and the woman next to him was not.

". . . And I guarantee they'll never find the body," he finished.

Someone whistled low in his ear. "_Man, I'll bet you kick ass at Reverse Pictionary." _

"_He didn't use my tire iron idea," _said Parker.

"_Don't take it personally," _said Hardison. "_He didn't use the wire clippers, either."_

"_I am listening, you know,"_ said Sterling.

"_Good," _said Sophie. "_You might remember it in future. Especially that one about the broken elbows and the Winsor knot."_

"_Sheesh, Sophie," _said Jo_. "You were kissing him earlier. Among other things."_

"_Yeah? Jo, why didn't you get me?"_ asked Ron.

"_Your birthday was last month."_

"_What was it _like_?"_ asked Parker, with the same fascination she had for horror films.

"_A lady doesn't kiss and tell," _said Sophie.

"_Oh. Does a lady do that thing you were doing with the sofa cushion and the—"_

"_You know what? Y'all are revolting. I can't even listen to this. Some things you just don't—not even for a _client. _It's just . . . wrong. Sick and wrong."_

"_And wire clippers_ aren't?" asked Dougie. "_You do know it's your fault if I fail Ethics, right? _And_ biology," _he added, still testy about being barred from the security-eye view of the photo shoot.

"_It was just a _job_, all right?" _said Sophie._ "_Acting, _remember? And it's hardly a romantic situation, what with you lot hanging about making rude suggestions and giggling the whole time—not that it would have been romantic anyway. I mean, please—we are talking about Sterling."_

"_Still listening, thank you."_

"_What on earth do all of you have against Agent Sterling?" _asked Madeline.

"_Don't ask," _said everyone at once.

"Home sweet home," muttered Eliot as he pulled up to the front gates and reached for the gate remote.

The chatter shut off.

Two seconds later, Parker said, "_Two men just hopped the side fence. Looks like they're heading for the front door."_

"_The direct approach. That's helpful," _said Sophie.

"_They're late," _said Hardison. "_I'll slow down the gate, but better get 'em inside quick."_

Just as the gate swung fully open, Eliot heard the doorbell in his ear. He hoped Sophie's method acting didn't keep her from getting to the door before the car came up on the house.

"_Yes?"_

"_Madeline Wencel?"_

"_I'm afraid not,"_ said a voice that could have been Madeline with a slight cold. _"This is the Ackerman—hey! What—what are you—"_

Eliot heard the door slam through his earbud, just as he came around the drive. "Front or back, Mr. Wencel?"

Mr. Wencel bared his teeth. "Front."

"_We're Interpol, Mrs. Wencel. And we'd like to have a chat about your husband."_

"_You've made a mistake. My—my name is Marietta Ackerman—" _

"_Mrs. Wencel, where are the documents you stole from your husband?"_

"_I don't know what you mean—I'm not even _married_—"_

Eliot led the others to the front door.

"Stay here," Wencel told his bodyguard. "Not you, Siobhan," he added. "It's time you met my wife. It should be. . .educational."

She stiffened, but said nothing.

Eliot wanted to reassure her, but he didn't see how. If he touched her, the others would wonder why. And under the circumstances, a wink and a smile would be worse than nothing at all.

He did manage to step between them as he opened the door and led them silently through the house to the living room. "Sounds like she has company," he whispered.

"Look, your husband's going to be arrested any minute now and he's planning on trading the information you took for a slap on the wrist. You want him to go free?"

"But—but he doesn't know where I am," said Sophie. "He doesn't even know what I look like!"

"Don't bet on it—he's got a specialist coming to take care of you."

"I know," she said quietly.

"What?"

"I know. I know what you're after and I know who's after me."

"Then you know we can—"

Wencel pushed past Eliot and strode into the room. "You're looking good, Maddie, aside from the leg. Good work, gentlemen. I'll take over from here."

Unger and Madison had their guns out before he finished his last sentence, but Eliot had moved, too, denying them clear shots at their former boss. Siobhan Kelly was vulnerable, but that couldn't be helped. "Mr. Wencel, you need to leave now. Kelly, get him out of here."

"Mr. Spencer, I don't need protection from my own people."

"These ain't your people, not anymore. Not stupid, remember? I have this place bugged. They were just about to promise to protect your wife from us—from _you_."

"We were trying to get your property back," said Unger. "That's all."

"Right," said Eliot. "That's why you drew on him." It was helpful to use the truth.

"We drew on you," said Madison. "We know about you, Spencer."

"Then you know I have a contract with Mr. Wencel. That should put us on the same side . . . 'cept you still don't seem to think so. But I'll step aside . . . on Mr. Wencel's say so."

Wencel started to laugh, a nasty chuckle. "What did my darling wife promise you? The same thing she was giving James Sterling? Or maybe something more valuable? "

Madison and Unger exchanged glances. "Sterling? James Sterling?" said Unger. "The lead agent in your case? He's in town?"

"In a manner of speaking, he's all _over_ town—courtesy of Mr. Spencer, here."

Sophie choked out a gasp. "No . . . you didn't."

"He most certainly did. On my orders. Did you really think you could get away with this, a stupid, worthless tramp like you?

Sophie wrapped her arms around herself and huddled in her seat, something Eliot had seen Madeline do too many times. She shook her head from side to side, silent tears spilling onto her cheeks.

"You had an Interpol agent killed?" asked Madison.

"Why not? You killed three of my men. Tit for tat, gentlemen."

"No we didn't."

"Then where are they?"

"They're on their way," said Sophie in a dead voice.

"What?"

"They're on their way." She held up her phone in a shaking hand. The screen flashed red. "But they aren't your men, either. Not for a long time."

"Bullshit," growled Wencel.

"Rodney was the one who let my rescuers in the night I finally escaped you," she said. "Gary was the one who suggested I change my face as well as my hair—did you know his girlfriend Toni works at _Beau Vous_ Surgery Consultants?"

"I've heard enough, Madeline."

Her voice grew louder, and she stared at him with the hatred of a cornered mouse that had nothing left to lose. "And how do you think Jo Schulte escaped so easily? Eddie was the only one of the four who hated her enough to follow your orders. Isn't that funny?"

"Shut up."

"And thanks for sending them down here to help Mr. Spencer—we were worried you'd figure it out if they just disappeared. James couldn't believe it—he was always telling me how perceptive you were, how cagey, how _smart._"

"Shut _up_," growled Wencel.

"Why? You've killed the only man I ever loved. You've hunted me down, sent a killer after me—a killer I might have _trusted_, if James hadn't been just that much smarter than either of you." She took a deep breath. "The only thing I can do now is make sure that you never get your hands on those _documents_ of yours. Any of you."

She reached down and pulled a twenty-two from the top of her cast, but before she could take aim, someone fired. Sophie was thrown back, her face registered shock as she slid off the couch onto the floor, a red stain spreading over her heart.

"No!" roared Wencel, and Eliot spun to see him backhand Agent Kelly, sending her gun sliding over the wood. "You _bitch_! She was _mine!_"

Door crashed open from the front _and_ the back of the house. The bodyguard arrived first, moments before Gary and his pals thundered into the room, guns out, one of them clutching a cell phone flashing red.

"Damn it," said Gary, looking at Sophie. "We're too late. Who did it?" He looked up and realized everyone else in the room had guns trained on each other. "What the hell is this?"

_This_ was the tricky part—it was up to Eliot to direct everyone's attention to the cameras overhead—once he told them it was being streamed straight to Interpol, they'd all stand down. They'd better—Gary and his boys were the only ones packing blanks, thanks to Ron.

Eliot drew in a breath.

"Kill them!" screamed Wencel.

Cursing, Eliot turned and put him out of everyone's misery with one well-deserved punch to the jaw. Turning with the motion, he dove for Agent Kelly, sending them both through the archway.

"What are you _doing_?" she yelled, as he rolled them around the corner.

The living room exploded.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

"—_liot?" _said Hardison in the profound silence that followed the final shot. "_Eliot! You're in a blind spot, man, you gotta talk to me. Are you all right? Eliot!"_

"Yeah," he said, getting to his feet. "Agent Kelly is here, too," he added, as she stood and brushed herself off. "Sophie?"

"_Still under the couch," _she whispered. "_Is it safe?"_

"_Should be,"_ said Hardison, uncharacteristically grim. "_Unless someone's playing possum."_

Eliot took a quick look around the corner, saw no movement, and then moved into the room. The bodyguard lay in one doorway, and Wencel in another. Gary and his buddies were down, too.

Damn. They might be hired thugs, but they deserved better than what they'd got. He shoved down the guilt—taking out their bullets had been his idea—and checked Wencel's pulse. Bastard was still alive. Figured.

There was no sign of Unger or Madison.

"We've got two Interpol agents on the loose," he said. "You'd better get to the van." He waited as Sophie scooted out of her hiding place and gave her a helping hand. "Take Agent Kelly with— where'd she go?"

"_She's headed for the control room,"_ said Hardison. "_We'll bring her in."_

Jo spoke up. "_I'll get—never mind. Sterling's on it."_

"Good. Go," he told Sophie. She nodded and went.

"_Hey,"_ said Hardison. "_We've lost some of the upstairs cameras."_

Eliot heard a creaking upstairs. "Dougie, you've got two armed men coming your way. Get out or get hidden."

"_But some—"_

"_Dougie," _said Jo. "_You _said_."_

"_Roof," _said Parker. "_Now."_

"_I _know_, but someone painted . . . over . . . the . . . window. It's _stuck."

"_Break it,"_ said Jo.

"_They'll hear me. The room across the hall is a bathroom—I can't reach the window from the bathtub without making a lot of noise. But the study. . . Oh, crap."_

"_Dougie?" _said Parker, Jo, and Ron together.

"_They're going through the rooms up here—someone's watching in the hallway."_

"Where are you?" asked Eliot.

"_In my old room. I thought—"_

"_You've got at least three hiding places in there," _said Jo. "_Hide."_

"_Mom, I'm _bigger_ than I used to be." _The kid wasn't panicking, not yet.

"_Eliot," _said Parker. "_He's behind the third door on the right. Study's second door on the left. I'll be there in thirty seconds—or right after they leave."_

"I'm on it," he said, heading for the stairs. "Dougie, I need you to tell me where they are and if and when they both leave the hallway—I mean the exact moment." He didn't need the help, but it might steady the kid.

"_Right. Okay."_

"_Who's Dougie?"_ asked Madeline.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

Eliot stopped climbing about six steps from the top, just as his eyes were level with the floor. "Kid?"

"_The small guy just went into the guest bedroom on the le—I mean, your right. Across from the study. The big guy's in the door, looking in. Should I—"_

"No! Stay put. Parker?"

"_Ready."_

The stairs were carpeted and made no sound as Eliot made it to the top. He eased past Unger, who was paying more attention to his partner than the hallway, and walked backwards down the hall, managing to get to Dougie's door before Unger backed into the hall

Eliot reached out with his right hand and closed the bathroom door. He took two steps toward Unger, did a double take, and said a bad word.

Unger did a double take of his own. "Hey!" He drew his gun and moved closer.

Madison appeared behind him, gun out. Unger glanced back and holstered his weapon—from their first meeting, Eliot had figured him as more of a hand-to-hand man. Looked like he was right.

That made Madison the dangerous one.

"David Spencer," said Madison, "you're under arrest."

David. Not Eliot. That was interesting. "For what?" He backed up slowly.

"Everything," said Unger, following. "Tell us where the damn files are and you won't get shot resisting arrest."

For a moment, Eliot didn't think Madison was going to move, but he finally took two obliging steps, just clearing Dougie's door. "Stop right there," he said.

Dougie's door opened silently. The study door did the same up the hallway.

"I don't know anything about a file," said Eliot, keeping his gaze on Madison as Dougie emerged, moving as swiftly and silently as Parker did.

"No file, huh?" Unger rubbed his chin. "Hey, Tom, is he holding a gun?"

"Yeah." Without moving his gaze or his aim, Agent Madison pulled a thirty-eight from the back of his waistband with his free hand and fired down the hallway—just as Dougie disappeared into the study. "And he shot at us, too," he added, holstering the spare.

"Sounds justified to me," said Unger. "Kelly will back us up. Hell, we'll probably all get medals for catching James Sterling's murderer."

"Nice."

"Kelly," said Eliot, mapping out possible plans. "She's working with you?"

"She'd better be," said Madison, without cracking a smile. "Goodbye."

"Wait a minute," said Eliot. "Hold on. Is the file on a disc?"

The agents glanced at each other. "Could be," said Madison. "Where is it?"

"Mr. Wencel had it." Eliot smiled. "Said he was gonna cut himself a sweet deal with Interpol."

Agent Unger cursed.

"No," said Madison. "He's lying. Wencel thought his wife had it—And what is he looking for up here? "

Eliot shrugged. "None of your business." He grounded himself, ready to do something that was probably gonna hurt—a lot—but if he was lucky, that's all it would do.

"Then there's no point in keeping you around." Madison raised his gun—

—and a bloodcurdling scream tore through the air.

As the agents swung around, Dougie leapt out of the bathroom and jammed something into Madison's side. The gunman went rigid for two long, painful-looking seconds. His eyes rolled back and he dropped.

Before he hit the carpet, Eliot tackled Unger.

The fight was short, quick, and far less painful than Eliot had thought . . . for him. He made sure Unger was out, and went to check on Madison. Dougie stood over the unconscious man, holding Parker's favorite stun gun—the one Hardison had given her for her birthday—at the ready.

Eliot picked up the agent's forty-five and emptied it, pocketing the bullets. "He's not gonna move any time soon, kid. You okay?"

"Yeah. Mom? Dad?"

"_I'm here,"_ said Jo.

"_Ditto,"_ said Ron. "_All of you okay?"_

"_Fine."_

"_Dougie, I'm sure I won't like what you just did—"_

"He pretty much saved my life, Jo."

"_Then I'm sure I won't like how he did it. So spare me the details, okay?"_

"No problem," said Dougie.

"_I'd like to know,"_ said Ron.

"So would I," said Eliot. "I thought you said you couldn't reach the window."

"Not from the inside. But dropping down into a bathtub is easy."

"It's a damn sight more dangerous than screaming. Why didn't you do that?"

"His voice changed," said Parker, coming out of the study. She took the stun gun out of Dougie's hand and patted him on the shoulder before hunkering down and going through the agent's pockets.

"_I can hear you,"_ said Jo.

"_Welcome to my world,"_ muttered Sterling. "_Did you leave us anything to arrest?"_

"_They're still breathing,"_ said Eliot, watching Parker fasten Unger's wrists to Madison's ankles with the agent's own restraints. "_You want to see for yourself?"_

"_I do," _said Agent Kelly.

"Uncle Spencer?" said Dougie, staring down at the man he'd nearly electrocuted.

It was the first time in two years Dougie had called him _uncle_, but Eliot understood why he might use it now. "Yeah, kid."

"When we get home, could you help me with the rest of my algebra homework?"

"Sure." Eliot grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon."

The main floor was still silent, but something seemed off. The bodies were still on the floor, but that wasn't it . . .

Agent Kelly appeared in the doorway. "You left them upstairs?"

"They're cuffed," said Eliot, frowning. "And Parker's with them."

"Parker?" Her eyes widened. "_The_ Parker?" She went to the stairs, then stopped and turned, her eyes wide.

Eliot whipped around and realized what he'd seen—or hadn't seen. "Dougie, get to the van right now—_move!" _The kid sped away."Parker—"

"_I'm gone." _

"Sterling, Hardison, get Jo and Madeline out of the house. Do you hear me?" He put a hand to his earbud. "Hardison? _Jo?"_

"_Jo?" _echoed Ron.

"_Eliot? What's wrong?"_ asked Sophie. "_No, Ron, stay here."_

"_Only if someone tells me—"_

There was a choked gasp.

"_Jo?"_

Eliot winced at Ron's shout. "Hardison? Jo?"

A cold voice chilled Eliot's ear. "_Well, well. A double surprise. And a double disappointment." _An amused chuckle descended into a vicious whisper. "_Hello, honey," _said Wencel. "_Did you miss me?"_

"_Ron_!" said Sophie. "_Eliot—_"

"Ron, I need you to stay with Sophie and Dougie and Parker. You're the only one I trust to get them out if I can't."

"Damn_ it, Eliot_," growled Ron.

"I know." And he ran for the control room, Agent Kelly at his heels.

* * *

**Almost there!**


	19. Last Day—Jo

**More!**

**Oh, and if you read the last chapter right after it went up, please try it again before reading this one—I used the wrong draft and didn't figure it out for an entire day. That's what I get for having one draft on my laptop and another on my flash drive . . . **

**But I fixed it and it should make more sense. I think. Please let me know—through PM, if you've already reviewed!**

* * *

Later, Jo pieced together the moments before everything went wrong—again.

Madeline, looking both confused and hopeful, had followed Agent Kelly to the door on the control room so she could lock it behind her. . . Sterling was watching Hardison try to suss the upstairs camera problem, now that it didn't matter . . . and Jo had sat down on Madeline's stool, feeling a little lightheaded from all the near misses.

She was used to Spencer taking risks—the entire team—but _Dougie_ . . . it didn't matter how capable he was or that he had a support system that rivaled James Bond's—or that he was probably going to _be_ James Bond someday. Stuff like this still gave her an adrenaline overload right in her maternal instinct.

Jo took a few deep breaths, patted her stomach, and silently promised Baby Southside that it was all over now, and they were heading back home to hide under the covers until the twenty-week ultrasound. She even closed her eyes for a moment.

It wasn't until Spencer told Dougie to run that she realize Madeline hadn't come back.

She sprang to her feet, but the door was already opening as Madeline backed into the room, pushed by the gun Robert Wencel held to her forehead. He kicked the door shut behind him, spun Madeline around, and shoved her against the wall by the throat, the gun barrel digging into her chin

"Well, well. A double surprise. And a double disappointment." Hateful laughter spilling from his battered lips. "Hello, honey," he said. "Did you miss me?"

"No," she choked out, her eyes huge. "No." She struggled to breathe, and for a moment, it seemed like she was going to die of slow suffocation while they watched.

Jo didn't know she'd moved, but Sterling's hand gripped her wrist. "Wait," he said.

Wencel turned his head to look at them, baring his teeth. "We'll catch up later, darling," he said and let go, leaving Madeline slumped against the wall, coughing. "Mrs. Schulte," he said, extending the gun in a friendly way, as if offering to shake her hand with it. "We've never been formally introduced."

Hardison and Sterling moved in front of Jo, bumping arms and blocking her view.

"Believe me, gentlemen, I will shoot through you to get to her. Starting with you, Agent Sterling."

Jo had always thought the team hated Nate's rival, until she heard Wencel speak his name—there was no comparison. "It's okay," she said, trying to shove through.

"No, it's not," said Hardison and Sterling together. They glanced at each other, but gave her room.

"What do you want, Mr. Wencel?"

"I want my property—my wife and what she stole from me."

"Why?"

"_Why?"_ He rolled his eyes. "Because they're _mine_." He gave her a once over. "Not much to look at, are you?"

"Never have been," she said.

"_Liar," _said Ron, sounding tense as hell. "_You're beautiful."_

"_Seconded,"_ said Spencer, from God knew where.

"_Thirded,"_ said Dougie, sounding as tense as his dad.

Jo braced herself for Wencel's reaction, until she realized that the voices had come through her earbud, not the speaker—Hardison must have shut it off or pulled the cable. That was good.

Someone knocked on the door. "Mr. Wencel?"

"Yes, Siobhan?"

Agent Kelly opened the door and walked to his side, as unconcerned as if he was holding a coffee cup instead of a weapon. "Spencer killed Unger and Madison. I think he's searching through the rooms upstairs. What do you want me to do?"

"Decisions, decisions . . . I could give him the benefit of the doubt," he said, rubbing his jaw, where a bruise was blossoming, "but he's far too dangerous to keep alive—dangerous and expensive. And I doubt he'd go with you willingly. Shoot him on sight."

She nodded and left, leaving the door open. Wencel didn't seem to notice—then again, thought Jo, there was no reason he'd care. As far as he knew, he was soon to be the last one standing.

"Front and center, Mrs. Schulte," he said. "I want to ask you a few questions."

She did as she was told.

Behind him, Spencer appeared in the doorway. He took a single step—and the floor creaked underfoot.

Wencel started to look over his shoulder, so Jo dropped to the floor and swept his legs out from under him. She tried to get up, but a cramp hit her hard in the side.

At least she thought it was a cramp.

It had to be a cramp.

She scrambled back like a crab, panting with the sudden pain, but Wencel was already up on one knee, gun still in hand. "That was a stupid move, Jo—may I call you Jo? I feel like I know you, what with your _constant interference _in my_ life_."

Spencer had come further into the room, but stopped—something had caught his attention.

Jo looked past Wencel, who was too busy ranting to notice. To her shock, Madeline was standing away from the wall. _Moving_ away from the wall.

Wobbling just a little, bit by silent bit, she made her way across the room until she stood behind her oblivious ex-husband.

"And since I can't have you interfering while I make Agent Sterling resemble some of the exaggerated photographs of his death, I'm going to shoot you and your young friend here." He lowered the gun. "Stomach wounds are supposed to hurt very, very badly. I wouldn't want your death to be boring.

Madeline hefted her cane like a baseball bat.

"No," said Jo, another cramp making her wince. There was no telling whether Wencel would pull the trigger when he was hit—and no way she could dodge a bullet. "Madeline."

"Don't worry about Madeline," said Wencel. "I'll take _good_ care of her."

Madeline swung.

The gun went off.

Jo's entire body clenched around her stomach . . . but there was no pain, except for the cramping. She stared at Wencel, who lay on the floor in a heap, the gun still in his hand.

Spencer was kneeling at her side. "Are you all right?"

"Blanks?" she said, when she could.

"Of course," he said, taking her wrist. "You're not the bulletproof one around here."

"How?"

"Wencel took Agent Kelly's gun. She came in to confirm that and tell me. But Wencel could still do some damage with it, or his bare hands, so I took it slow."

"And then Madeline deserved her turn." The dizziness was back.

He smiled. "Yeah. Ron?"

"_On my way."_

"If that's what being in front of a clobbered gunman is like," she said, licking dry lips, "I owe you an apology."

"Accepted," he said. "Sterling, find Kelly." His voice as pleasant, but it was still an order. Sterling wouldn't like that.

The other man, who had been helping a silent Madeline into the chair, turned and looked at Jo. He nodded and left the room at what was not quite a run.

Who knew? "I'm fine, Spencer."

"You're on this side of shock. We're going to take a quick ride to the hospital to get you checked out."

She opened her mouth to argue, saw his expression, and didn't. Plus, the cramps were worrying her. They didn't feel like . . . like the last time, but it would be stupid to ignore them. And she was getting a headache, too. "Okay."

"Good girl." He looked up as Ron and Dougie tore into the room and moved away.

"Sterling and his friend are bringing the helicopter," Ron said, dropping next to Jo.

"The nearest hospital is only a ten minute drive," said Jo, feeling the warmth of his hand. He was always so warm . . . why was she shivering?

Ron brushed her hair back from her eyes. "The best maternity unit in the state is a fifteen minute flight."

Dougie took her hand. "You'll be all right, Mom. You and Southside."

"I know," she lied, and wished she was better at it.

**oooooOOOOOooooo**

It took several forms of law enforcement ID, two of them actually legitimate, to get the floor nurse to stop trying to turf Jo's visitors out of her room.

"Parker, quite poking at the IV bag and settle down," said Sophie, who had driven to the hospital after changing her clothes—it wouldn't have done, as she said, to march into a hospital with blood down her blouse. Parker and Hardison had come with her, since Spencer had made it clear that he was taking the fifth seat in the helicopter. Sterling had arrived later with Madeline, after turning Wencel and the Evil Interpol twins over to local law enforcement.

"I don't like hospitals," said Jo.

"Then don't let yourself get dehydrated,"said Spencer from his seat by her bed. He and Ron had been repeating variations on that theme ever since the top O.B. in Pennsylvania had confirmed that her cramping and dizziness had been caused by not drinking—or eating—anything since breakfast. "If you're gonna keep crying at the drop of a hat, you've got to replace the fluids."

"I _know_," said Jo, but she wasn't irritated. She couldn't be, not when everything was _finally_ all right. She leaned against her husband, and let all the voices wash over her.

"Wencel has a concussion," said Sterling, tucking his phone away. "And a broken jaw."

"There's a shocker," said Parker, from her perch on the windowsill. "Where'd you learn to punch like that?"

"Mrs. Schulte," said Sterling, rubbing his own jaw.

"You hit Wencel?" asked Jo. "Why?"

"Does there have to be a reason?" asked Sterling, but his gaze flickered to Agent Kelly, who was debating something with Hardison in some kind of programming language that no one else in the room could understand. There was still a faint mark on her face. "The man needs to learn some manners."

"Sounds familiar," she said, and he flashed her a brief smile.

"You hit Sterling?" asked Spencer. His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason?"

He thought about it. "Not really."

"Did anyone ever find that file everyone was after?" asked Ron.

"Nope," said Dougie, sitting up.

"There's a reason for that," said Sterling, smirking. "There was—"

"—never a file," finished Parker.

"What?" asked Jo.

Sterling blinked. "How did you know?"

"Because we didn't find it,' said Dougie. "Anywhere."

Sterling lifted his shoulders. "We needed a way to ferret out the Interpol employees on Wencel's payroll—and the ones being blackmailed. So Agent Kelly and I started the rumor that he was keeping evidence of his Interpol contacts in the deposit box—evidence he would use to make a deal with us when he was arrested. It worked very well—three of our, ah, former people were caught inside the bank."

"But then word got out that Mrs. Wencel had disappeared with the contents," said Agent Kelly. "That caused a lot of problems."

"Typical Nathan Ford," said Sterling. "But we have the evidence we need."

"And only four people had to die," said Spencer, his voice not quite guilty, not quite accusatory.

Sterling's eyebrow rose. "I wasn't the one who yelled _Kill_ at a nervous group of armed men. I think we can agree that their blood is on Robert Wencel's hands—not ours."

Spencer frowned. "Maybe."

"But if _Wencel_ knew there wasn't any file," asked Jo, "Why did he send all those people after me and sic Spencer on Madeline?"

"Bearer bonds," said Parker. She reached into the Dinosaur Train backpack she'd found somewhere and fanned out a thick sheaf of elaborately engraved paper.

"And the passwords to all of his offshore accounts," said Madeline. "You found my cookie jar," she said to Parker.

Parker shrugged. "We were hungry."

"So he wasn't just after revenge."

Madeline shook her head. "The minute Robert knew he was under investigation, he had ninety-nine percent of his liquid assets transferred out of the country or put into those bonds. Agent Sterling tells me that the rest is already frozen."

Sterling smiled at her. "Robert Wencel won't be able to bribe his way out of his charges. He can barely afford a public defender."

"But wouldn't he keep the passwords handy?" asked Parker.

"My ex-husband has trust issues," said Madeline. "He used a random number generator and changed the list at the bank almost every week. No one could memorize all those."

"I didn't find a list of numbers," said Parker, shuffling the bonds together.

Madeline smiled a genuine smile. "The day after I left, I transferred everything into one account and chose a single password of my own."

"Good for you," said Sophie. She got up, pulled the bonds out of Parker's hands and handed them to Madeline.

She stuffed them into her shoulder bag. "It was Mr. Ford's idea. So was buying myself a nice, heavy cane."

"That sounds like Nate," said Spencer, without any hesitation over the name. He returned Jo's gaze and winked.

Jo cleared her throat and willed herself to not tear up.

"There she goes," said Spencer. He stood and stretched. "C'mon, kid," he said, to Dougie. "Let's go see if we can find something to drink around here that doesn't come in a bag with a tube."

Ron squeezed Jo's hand and slid off the bed, lowering her onto her pillow. "I'll come with you. Anyone want coffee? Spencer's buying."

The two collected orders and swapped insults on the way out, including Dougie in the conversation.

"Jo's boys," said Sterling.

She shrugged. "Tell me about Agent Kelly. Is she your . . . partner?"

He gave her a bland look. "She's a researcher, actually—she's the one who found all that information on you. She's an analyst as well, one of the best—her clearance is higher than mine."

"So she _was_ one of you and not one of them."

"She was both. Agent Kelly was the only one who reported Wencel's attempt to blackmail her. She's been working for him ever since—and reporting to us. Near the end, she was doing the same for Unger and Madison. Both sides against the middle" He shook his head. "I don't know many who could pull that off. Not on my side, anyway," he added, as Sophie let out a musical laugh.

Jo raised her eyebrows. "Which side is that?"

"Hmmph."

"What did Wencel have on her?" Siobhan Kelly looked as straight-laced as Sterling—even while arguing with Hardison.

Sterling turned to watch them, his face neutral. "She fell in love with the wrong man."

Agent Kelly looked up and smiled. He smiled back, then looked at Jo.

"Are _you_ the right man?" asked Jo.

She didn't expect an answer, and he didn't give one. Instead, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Take care of yourself, Ms. Schulte."

"You, too, Mr. Sterling."

The drinks arrived, bringing chaos with them, as cups were loudly distributed and grimaced over and swapped.

Sterling leaned closer. "And remember: James is a fine name for a boy . . . and Sterling might do for a girl."

He smiled that infuriating smile of his, dropped an equally infuriating wink, and went to collect his colleague.

"What did he say?" asked Spencer, offering her a bottle of water.

"Just goodbye."

"If only. He'll show up again."

She took a small swallow. "Is the truce over?"

"That's up to him. Tell you one thing—I'm never gonna like the guy."

"I know. I think he'd prefer respect, anyway."

Spencer snorted, but didn't argue.

Hardison came up. "Sterling just threatened me with life in a Luddite prison if those images of him and Sophie ever surfaced."

"I thought you took care of that already," said Spencer.

"'Course I did—you think I want Sophie gunning for me?"

"That isn't what you and Agent Kelly were fighting about," said Jo. "Was it?"

"Sort of—she was telling me how _she'd _scour a system, and then tried to get me to bring up the images so she could _show me how_." He shook his head. "The girl knows how to program, but she's a lousy grifter. And if I didn't know better, I'd say she had a thing for Sterling." He shivered.

Jo couldn't imagine wanting to see photos of Ron with anyone else, staged or not. But to each her own.

Madeline came up. "Agent Sterling and Kelly are going to take me back to the house to pack a few things for the hotel. Thank you all so, so much." She pulled a few of the bonds out of her bag. "I'd like to—"

"No," said Sophie.

"Please—it's not enough for what you've done."

"We have an alternate revenue source," said Spencer, folding his arms.

"We do?" said Parker. "I mean, fine, sure. Whatever."

"Then give them to the shelter," said Madeline, holding them out to Jo.

Jo sighed. "I should say no, but every little bit counts. Thanks."

"Thanks for not giving up on me." She gave Jo a careful hug and kissed Spencer on the cheek before joining the agents in the hall. With one last wave, they were gone.

"So," said Ron, "Are you all going to take regular jobs, now that you found out you don't need Nate to pull them off?"

The team looked at each other. "Maybe," said Sophie.

"Just to keep up the skills," said Hardison.

"I've got an idea for the first one," said Spencer, slowly.

"Breaking Nate out?" said Parker. "What?" she said, as everyone stared.

Dougie sat up. "Really?"

"Just because we don't _need_ him doesn't mean we don't _want_ him," said Sophie. "It might be good for him to learn that."

"Which part?" said Hardison.

"Both."

Jo grinned. Nate was going to find a few surprises waiting for him when he came back.

"So," said Parker. "Are you really going to name the baby Sterling?"

"What?" said Spencer. "There's something wrong with you."

She folded her arms. "That's what he told Jo. James for a boy, Sterling for a girl."

There were various sounds of protest from around the room.

"Not _Sterling_, for heaven's sake."

"What's wrong with Alec?"

"Or Parker—Parker works with both."

Spencer opened his mouth, but Jo cut him off. "You're my best friend and I love you, but I can't name a child Eliot. I'm sorry."

Ron held up a hand. "At this point," he said in a voice that demanded attention, "we've narrowed it down to two names. Spencer Parker Alec Nathan Devereaux Schulte or Eleanor Parker Sophia Alexis Natalia."

"I think I like Southside better," said Dougie.

"Nicknames are out of our hands," said Jo. "But as I remember, we won't know the right name until we actually meet the baby, so it's still anyone's game."

"I still think Parker works either way."

"So do I. Parker Alexis has a nice ring to it."

"Or Alice Hardison."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You'd totally look like an Alice, if you were a girl."

"Wait, what?"

"Sophie Devereaux . . ." said Sophie, as if she was thinking of something else. Or possibly someone.

"Unless you have an alternative," said Jo.

A slow, almost shy smile crept over the grifter's lovely face. "Well, now that you mention it . . ."

* * *

**And yes, it kills me that I don't have Sophie's real name yet . . .**

**One more chapter to go, if you can stand it.**


	20. The Recommendation—Sterling

The woman picked up her glass of wine and gazed at her companion with dark, unsmiling eyes. "I received your recommendation," she said.

"And?" He sat relaxed in his chair, looking perfectly at ease in the bar of London's most exclusive restaurant, though she knew something of his origins.

She had no doubt that he knew of something of hers. "I asked you to recommend the best of the best. You gave me criminals."

He took a sip of his own drink and set it down, a gold wristwatch gleaming under the cuff of his sapphire-colored shirt. "Someone recently told me that bad guys often make the best good guys. I believe I might agree, under certain, specific circumstances."

"One of them was arrested—by you. He is still incarcerated."

"Yes." His lips twitched. "You'll have to do something about that."

"Is he really so necessary, this alcoholic egomaniac?"

He chuckled. "He is necessary to the others."

"Why?"

"Because he is almost as brilliant as they think he is. And they are fully as brilliant as he knows they are."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that if you want to bring Damian Moreau down, these people will do it." He leaned forward. "But a word or two of advice: be very, very careful how you handle them—they don't respond well to micromanagement. And it would be best if you don't mention my name." He finished his drink and stood, buttoning his beautifully tailored jacket. "We must do this more often," he said, with a polite smile.

"You can't stay for dinner? And perhaps . . ." She smiled, more to see how he would react than in true promise. Though she'd often wondered . . .

"I'm afraid not. I have another engagement."

"Ah, well. Do say hello to Agent Kelly for me."

He gave her a half smile that could mean anything, or nothing, and walked away.

The woman reached into her bag and brought out a phone. Tossing her hair away from one ear, she tapped a button with a manicured nail and waited. "_Sì. Chi conosciamo all'interno dell'ufficio federale della prigione_?"

* * *

**Done! Please let me know what you think (it's _never_ too late to drop me a note).**

**Thank ****you all for reading another one of my long stories and for all the reviews and alerts! ****I can't think of a more supportive place to play that this one. And t****hanks, again, bprice—I don't know when I would have tried another Eliot/Jo story without your nudge. **

**I think I'll go catch up on some sleep now!**

**VV**


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